Diary of an Ugly Girl
by Anton M
Summary: Follow Bella as she grows from a bullied little girl into a sassy young woman. After all, it's not about what you're looking at, it's about what you see. An unorthodox story about best friends and their journey. Humor/Angst/Friendship/Romance. AH
1. Diary of an Ugly Girl

**Disclaimer: **The Twilight Saga and its characters are copyright to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. This disclaimer applies to the entire story.

**A/N:** This story is written in the form of a diary in first person, so while her perception of the world will be—as it always is—tilted, her vision of herself isn't. When she says she doesn't look appealing, it's not merely a misunderstood concept of aesthetics. The rough style (lack of synonyms, uncontrolled embolalia and such) is deliberate. I hope you enjoy! (Because this is probably the biggest piece of shoe I've published.)

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"'The ekpyrotic process begins far in the indefinite past with a pair of flat empty branes sitting parallel to each other in a warped five-dimensional space... The two branes, which form the walls of the fifth dimension, could have popped out of nothingness as a quantum fluctuation in the even more distant past and then drifted apart.' No arguing with that. No understanding it either." — Bill Bryson,_ A Short History of Nearly Everything_, page 167

: :

_Friday, the 12th of November_  
_Seattle, WA_

_8:34 PM. Sitting on my windowsill with an apple juice and a pile of books, with the pen giving me company and The Rolling Stones in the background._

Do people actually start their diaries with a 'dear diary'? What a bunch of bullshit. I'll start this with a more likely situation.

Dear Emmett, who I know will find (and read) this old notebook in one way or the other, please know that I really don't give a crap about what you think. Yes, my thoughts are fascinating and I whine occasionally, but it's _my_ diary. But if you ever—ever—read this publicly, I will never forgive you. Not ever. I'd say that I'll kill you, but I'll cut down on the melodrama.

Capeesh?

Thank you, Emmett. You won't find anything interesting in it anyway, so go back to playing with your, well, you know what I mean. I know you so well.

Okay, now that I'm alone (me and my notebook? my God, that's sad), I'll start my third attempt at writing a diary. Yes, I'm that pathetic. I usually give up at around the twentieth page, so that's when you (yes, Emmett, I mean you) should grow worried if I don't write another entry. I'm usually pretty consistent with stuff, but a diary? I don't know what it is about it that doesn't let me finish. Will I burn it later? Probably. So why am I writing it? Probably because I feel a little lonely. I don't even care that I sound pathetic, I don't mind. It's not like anyone's going to read this anyway.

Other than you, my dear brother, and you probably don't have enough brain-function to realize what this is, so I'm not too worried.

I could've been a little more contemporary and written this in the internet, but there's something cool about writing an actual diary. (If only I had a life worthy of keeping track of, that would be even cooler.) So, how do I start? My name is on the cover, so repeating that is pointless (and Emmett, you ought to have learned my middle name by now). I'm seventeen, I'm averagely average on every scale you'll find and, well, I'm not easy on the eyes. And no, I'm not being humble. I'm not one of those knock-outs whining about a bad hair day, I swear. There are far worse things in life than uncombed hair.

But it's not like I have a missing limb or two heads or anything. (How unfortunate, because that's what it feels like most days.) I have long hair, which would be much cooler if it were thick or shiny or both. It is neither. It's just there. Kind of like a chicken with an ugly face attached to it.

Now _that's_ a comparison you won't let me forget, Emmett. (Stop reading this, you already know where this is going, and PlayStation or Seattle Seahawks won't be included in my fascinating diary. Starting from now.)

I always keep my light brownish hair in a braid at school, I'm not even sure why. Maybe because I want to feel less of a chicken. I have a nose with a bump (see? I told you I'm not one of those knock-outs whining about bad breath), my eyes are small, eyebrows are undefined (and close to my eyes) and I have a huge forehead. I actually have a fringe to cover it up, the kind that was in fashion for a while, but now it just makes me feel weird.

Not that there would be a day when I'd feel normal.

I'm not overweight or anything, but my body is kind of shapeless. I don't have a defined waist, I don't have defined hips, I don't have defined calves or anything. I feel like an abnormally tall twelve-year old. My mother (yes, still living in Arizona and yes, still together with Phil) keeps telling me that I'll grow out of it, but I'm starting to doubt that. Seventeen years old and still without any shape that would make me look like a female?

Maybe I have Klinefelter's. (No, Emmett, that is not a new name for Wendy's.)

I know, realistically, I'm not the ugliest girl around, and it's not like everyone would tease me about it (not anymore, anyway), but it still doesn't feel like I belong. I don't. I don't hate the girls with fortunate looks merely because they have something to show, I don't think every popular girl is either evil, dumb or both, and I'm not one of those people who never socialize. I have a few close friends, I speak to all the students in my class if necessary and I try not to be bothered by the fact that I'm sadly underdeveloped.

I try.

I can now make fun of it, though, and that helps a lot. I laugh when people compare me to a horse or a donkey or any other animal there is, and I really am not bothered that they see me for who I am. And again, no, this doesn't interpret to: "You really don't see yourself very clearly." I wash our bathroom mirror often enough, and trust me, it shows me pretty clearly. I don't mind anymore if people see how unfortunate my combination of genes is, because it's the truth. My father is one of the only people to keep repeating to me that I look nice (notice the adjective, it's not 'beautiful' or 'adorable' or 'pretty', it's _nice_). People lie.

Mirrors don't.

Alright, I'll forget the self-pity for a moment and try to see something positive about myself. I think I have nice straight and strong teeth, as far as body parts go. But when I laugh, I guffaw, which surely isn't pleasant neither on the eyes or ears. (Straight and strong teeth? Guffaw? I'm a horse.) I'm average at most subjects, I get decent grades and sometimes help others with Mathematics.

Yes, really.

It's funny, though, because I get Maths better than Emmett does and he's a year ahead of me, so I have a Math class with my brother. I don't know where Emmett was when God gave away brain cells, but he sure as hell wasn't in the right place. He sometimes convinces me to do his homework (while he's at a party and I'm at home... because I have an awfully interesting life) but I try to get something back for it, not because I'd need anything from him, but because our mother is back in Arizona and he needs to realize that do be in the receiving end of nice gestures you'd have to offer something back. Wow, now that I'm reading this, it feels like I'm trying to replace our mom.

Hahaha.

That isn't my intention, I think. Although Emmett is a year older than I am, he still behaves like a three year old. It isn't anything new. Men are just boys in a bigger body with a bigger... er, you get what I mean. I have a knack for directing the conversation (with myself? how sad) in the most awkward direction. I don't mean to do it, it just sorta happens. Oh, well.

You might've noticed. (Yes, Emmett, I'm still talking to you. I can see you, you know. Please stop hovering behind my back, it's annoying. And stop laughing, the 'big' comment was about your feet. Geez.)

I'm glad I have a brother who respects my privacy by barging into my room and demanding a duck tape. (He didn't actually see what I was writing, thank God. Not yet, anyway.)

(Which makes me wonder, what was he really laughing about? I need to get to the bottom of this.)

The one thing that I am really good at, and I mean really, really good at, is Drama. I love it. I don't care that I don't have the looks to enter the real world of drama and acting, I don't even care that I never get the princess part. I can play the prince. As a frog. Really, I don't mind. If I ever made it to the film world — a pause for laughter, hahahaha — I think I'd make a great villain. The good aspect is that I'd love-love-love to play a villain, the bad one that, well, female villains are usually expected to be sexy. You might have noticed somewhere between my whining that I am as sexy as a pile of rotten tomatoes.

Now that I think about this, why is this? Do men want to see a bad girl with tight black leather and kitten eyes — a Catwoman? Probably. Alex Forrest in_ Fatal Attraction_ (though she was more crazy than sexy. Not that much of a comfort, but still), O-Ren-Ishii in_ Kill Bill vol 1_, Annie Wilkes in _Misery_... ohh! Cathy Bates won an Oscar for that role, and she isn't a classical beauty, if I do say so myself. I feel a little better. But only a little.

Yes, I am obsessive about films and film-making. (I clearly chose the right place to work.)

I haven't told anyone this yet, but I want to try and get into SUNY, Purchase College in Purchase, New York. Don't laugh. That wasn't nice. I'm fully aware of the pathetic attempt to get into that college (it's so far), but I've almost gathered enough money to fly there. (Emmett never understands why I don't have money when I work in a cinema, but I put it aside. If he's going to drink someone's money, it won't be mine.)

Okay, back to the subject. I've been in a Drama class in our school since first grade and it's not even funny how much I want to get into that college. I have time, because I have to finish my junior year, ace my exams and survive the senior year. Meanwhile, I can do further research on how to get into SUNY. I'm one of the organizational people in our Drama class and I've been to more plays than anyone else in our school (even without counting the ones where I played the Trojan Horse or an ugly-faced Christmas tree), so I have a fairly good idea how the acting stuff works.

I love acting. I convinced my friend Angela—she's a lovely and quiet girl—to go with me last year, but even I had to admit that acting wasn't for her. She's good at that Literature stuff.

Ohh, someone's at the door and Emmett seems to be in the garage. I'll be right back.

: :

_Monday, the 15th of November  
7:17. Lying on my bed, waving my feet in the air to the sound of Jason Mraz and finally having something exciting to write about._

So much has happened, I don't know where to begin! No, that is a lie. But Friday night was interesting, to say the least.

Jasper—Emmett's best friend—is at the door, looking for my brother (obviously). But he isn't alone, there's some quiet dude with him. Jasper introduces us. Apparently, Edward (what a name! I feel like reading _Jane Eyre_ or something similarly sappy) is his cousin. By the time we both realize we've met before, we've already played two sets of carrom in our garage. (Carrom/corona is an awesome game a little similar to billiard, except the table is square and instead of balls you're dealing with discs, like in a hokey game.)

Anyway, I didn't realize I'd met him before because, well, the Edward from my childhood was so very gaunt. He used to have this look on his face that was somewhere between perpetual terror and childish impatience, kind of like he couldn't decide if he's allowed to have fun. He was the quietest creature on planet Earth (I'm not sure if he ever even uttered a word around us), and yet, he managed to be annoying as hell. He followed us everywhere. Hey, I was a kid, what did I know?

Emmett and I spent quite a lot of time in Jasper's parents' cottage house near Forks.

The Edward I met on Friday was clearly not similar to the one I'd known back in Cutlery 101. He's taller than Emmett (which isn't much of a feat because Emmett is only an inch taller than me). It's strange to see them do the 'pat on the back nice to meet you dude' because Edward must be at least six foot four (five? six? I'm not sure. I didn't run for a measuring tape the moment I saw him). He's grown out of his scrawniness (you hear that, body? Some people grow up and blossom, and what do you do? Procrastinate). I didn't pay much attention to his appearance on Friday, we were just having fun playing carrom. I shared about ten words with Edward ('thank you' and 'your turn,' mostly) and didn't notice him up until today.

A Monday.

And what a Monday it is. I'm (pleasantly) surprised to see Edward in my school (neither Jasper nor Edward even _mentioned _the fact that Edward was about to move here!) and I casually say 'hi' to him (because that's what people do, and no, I do not have an ulterior motive behind it). He smiles and greets me back, again, because that's what people do. But my God, the giggling, the blushing, the following, the curious stares and hesitant hellos that follow him the whole day. I wouldn't have noticed or minded otherwise, but he's a junior and shares quite a few classes with me.

The girls annoy the hell out of me.

That's why, before our third period (Biology), I am wary of him sitting next to me. I've been sitting alone in that class because, firstly, Angela isn't there, and secondly, I don't mind sitting alone. All the space for myself, why would I mind? I pay enough attention to Mr. Banner (he's a little crazy, but that's another story) to know what he's talking about, so I don't really need help.

Edward approaches me hesitantly and that surprises me because we (kind of) know each other. He scratches his curly hair (yes, really, talking about combing, I don't think he's been introduced to a comb, no offense intended) and smiles, again—a little hesitantly.

"Is this seat taken?"

"No, it's Bill's. He's six foot seven and has boxing listed as one of his many sporty extracurricular activities. You don't wanna mess with him."

"Oh." He waves in a 'it doesn't matter, that's fine' kinda way and turns away from me. I'm taken aback by his enthusiasm to sit next to me, so I stand and grab his sleeve.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you wanna know who Bill is?"

He frowns. A few girls are paying attention to our conversation, but I don't really care. "A kick-ass boxer?"

"Yes. But other than that."

"Your boyfriend?"

I hold on to his shoulder to keep myself from falling because of my guffaw-laughter fit. I might receive a few curious looks (glares) from his new fans, but Edward and I are friends. Aren't we? Well, at least we aren't strangers.

"It's obvious you're new," I explain, trying to catch my breath. Edward patiently waits for a more elaborate answer. "Bill is my imaginary friend. He lives in the fifth dimension."

Edward scratches his uncombed hair but smiles. "Oh."

"So if you're nice, he might let you sit beside me in this lesson." I try to remain serious as I caution, "Best behavior."

Edward tilts his head on the side and stares at me for a moment. I stare back.

"You are... something else."

"I wouldn't wanna be something, now would I? _Else_ is much better. I'm a nutcase, so you might wanna return to normalcy before you ruin your new-found fame."

"Is that a promise or a threat?"

"Both."

Edward immediately—and exaggeratedly—slumps down beside my seat. "Thank God. Please be on your worst behavior."

More than a few eyes land on us when our classmates enter, but the lesson starts pretty soon. The assignment for today requires for us to work together, so we get away with speaking. Edward leans on our half-made poster about the diminishing ozone layer when I lean closer and ask, "From your behavior earlier, I take it that you don't like your new-found fame? Or is it old? Do girls always swoon and faint at the sight of you? If so, I'm sorry to disappoint you."

It isn't that I don't like Edward, because I do. He's a likable guy like that. (Too many likes, I might need to find a synonym dictionary.) But my problem is that when I get annoyed, I take it out on the wrong way. I throw sarcasm at my insecurities and expect everything to heal itself. I usually fail, but I don't want to lose a potential friend because of my passive attack. Or is it aggressive? Geez, I think too much.

Surprised, Edward locks eyes with me and I finally realize what all the fuss is about. His green eyes are "a sight to behold." (But no, I do not blush after having thought that. I blush in awkward situations, like if I had walked in on people having sex or something. I would blush if there were a chance, but lying to myself isn't one of my admirable qualities.)

Therefore, no blushing from me.

"Uh," he stutters. "Um, no. It was never like that in Chicago. I dunno what's their problem."

"I do. It's the eyes." I point at mine before pointing at his. "Definitely the eyes."

"Excuse me?"

"They're—" I shut up before saying something equally dumb and embarrassing, "—green."

"So?" he asks. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's, well, rare." I swallow. "Maybe they've never seen that before."

"That's insane."

"That's life. Anyway, if you have that many admirers, why did you sit next to the one who had the audacity not to fall on her knees in front of you?"

"Exactly." He points at me with his ballpoint pen before adding something to the poster. "Exactly. I needed a friend."

"I'm your friend?"

He avoids my eyes. "I mean, uh. It's just..."

I chuckle, leaning closer and pretending secrecy as I whisper, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

He leans away. I think I have a small seizure when I realize what he might think. I cringe. The thing with being unappealing (and knowing it!) is that I forget that people can easily take my bold actions the wrong way. And my actions are straight-forward only because I am_ fully _aware of how ugly I look. I just don't stand a chance. But I probably need to let Edward know that. No hay problema.

"Good." He smiles. "I was so afraid to be seen around you."

"That wouldn't make you any different from anyone else, really," I joke, smiling. "No biggie."

He huffs and smiles, probably not quite sure if I'm joking or not. Unfortunately, Biology ends soon and we go our different ways for the rest of the day.

Until Drama rolls around.

There aren't that many people in our Drama class. It has changed a lot over the years, sometimes reaching as many as forty four people, sometimes as little as nine, but this year, we have twenty people, most of whom were here last year as well. The thing about our Drama class is that it includes students from all grades, starting from Grant Elementary School (some from East Side) and ending with North Cedar High School. The older students sometimes belittle and tease the younger ones (yes, I am speaking from experience), but we mostly have a nice environment. We laugh and joke and fool around and improvise with the assignment we've been given.

Mostly improvise.

We're currently working on Andrew Lloyd Webber's _Cats_ (you know, the musical written after T. S. Eliot's _Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats_? Exactly, a musical. You might as well cover your ears before Christmas.) The Arts people are already trying to create the best junkyard (with little point, I might add, since a junkyard shouldn't be the most difficult task in the world. Just throw a few garbage bins upside down and—tada! I am a genius. Then again, it would smell pretty horrible. Oh, well.)

Anyway, as we're reading through the plot (we only have an hour to perform it) and adding jokes to the flat tone of the dialogue, there's a knock on the door. I, being the organizational part of our group and a bit of a leader of sorts, (not to mention, being me), yell, "It's open!"

Edward's curly and uncombed hair peeks in. "Is this, um, room—" He checks something from paper. "Nine oh one?"

A few chuckles make Edward purse his lips. I smile, trying not to laugh. "The first number signifies the number of the floor. We don't have nine floors."

Edward fumbles, frowns at his paper and turns it upside down. "One oh six?"

"Yup."

He shuts the door.

"Sorry about the lack of number plates on our doors. Our Student Body President has been trying to fix this problem for a while. Adam used graffiti to make vice principal realize we need numbers, but he got detention for two months and we got smelly corridors." A few people laugh. "Are you gonna join us? The teacher's in some sort of a conference, so I'm your boss today."

He looks around to see people snicker and tease me. Edward frowns. He doesn't move.

"Grab a chair, Edward." I point at the chairs next to the windows before I realize I haven't introduced him to the others. "Oh, people, that's Edward. He's from—" I turn to Edward. "You're from Chicago, correct?"

"Um, yes."

"—Chicago. He's made peace with my imaginary friend and he likes to, well, I'm not sure, but we'll find out."

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**A/N:** Please comment and hate and nitpick and ramble and ask questions. I love it all. I'll reply and love you.


	2. Holding the Pavement

"Fears have been raised that in their enthusiasm scientists might inadvertently create a black hole or even something called "strange quarks," which could, theoretically, interact with other subatomic particles and propagate uncontrollably. If you are reading this, that hasn't happened." - Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_, page 162

: :

_Tuesday, 16th of November  
5:55 PM (I made a wish!), lying on my bed and listening to the awful rap without melody coming from Emmett's room._

I got interrupted by none other than my dear brother yesterday (he was being strangely nice to me, I don't know what's wrong with him), so that's why the ending sounds awkward. (I just re-read what I'd written on Friday and yesterday. Why do I always add 'or something' to everything? This might be the key as to why my essays are always "good, _but_...") But I'll try to make it sound as if I wasn't interrupted. Which would mean that I delete this section. Which I won't.

As I was saying, Edward joining with our Drama class surprises me to say the least. And I know I seem to have acted a little (okay, a lot) out of character, but the thing is, I used to be the most awkward quietest person you could imagine—especially around peers who are not Eric. I still am, but only in certain situations. But about three years ago, I figured that being bold and joking and ugly is better than to be invisible and ugly. So I changed myself.

It wasn't easy.

(Yes, it was. All I have to do is to pretend I don't care, and the more I do that, the more I realize that I actually don't.)

I've never been one of the girls who squeal and storm to a friend the moment a guy talks to me. Maybe it's because I've never been in a situation where I'd be under the illusion that a guy liked me (hahaha), maybe it's because students talk to me often because I don't gossip, and maybe it's just because I don't really care who I talk to. If one of the guys from the more popular crowd asked me for a pen, I'd borrow it, but I'd make sure to get it back. I'll leave the gasping jaw-dropping to Vicky. (And I quote what I heard yesterday in the corridor: "Oh my God, oh my God, Michael knows my name, he knows my name! Gah! Should I speak to him? Oh my God! I can't believe he knows my name!")

Vicky, I know your name, too, can I get a squeal? Yaaay! Bella knows my name, she knows my name! (I have to say, it would be pretty damn weird if Michael didn't know Vicky's name. They've shared classes for seven years.)

And back to Earth.

So, where was I before the image of Vicky killed my sane thinking? Oh. Edward. We got to know him a little more yesterday, he was thinking of joining Drama, but wasn't too sure, so he'll "drag along" (his words, not mine) for a few weeks before he figures out whether he wants to join or not. It's cool. I think everyone should do that. Edward loves to write lyrics, but (and again, his words, not mine): "I couldn't play (the guitar) if you threatened to boil me alive. I can't play worth a damn."

We'll see, Edward. We'll see.

(You can mentally add a few 'ums' and 'uhs' to his speech because I'm just cutting his awkwardness out.)

I hate it when people apologize before letting anyone judge their skills. Like when you go and visit a friend who immediately starts to apologize about the "messy" room when in reality there's only one pillow on the floor and an empty cup on the table. Having seen Emmett's room, trust me, my friends' vision of messy is a tad naïve.

(Ohh, the obscure music in Emmett's room changed to Fort Minor's _High Road_. That, at least, has a rhythm.)

Edward also loves acting, but I can completely understand why he'd be hesitant about joining us. We're a bunch of freaks (with different characteristics, yes, but still weirdos). My first impression of him wasn't wrong—or, well, the first impression of a mature Edward—he's the awkward-ish quite type of guy. Not that I'd type people, because I don't. Don't nitpick, you know what I mean. He's got this band-ish thing going on that girls seem to love, and yes, I agree that he's handsome. But I have no idea how he got so humble or why he speaks to me (I think I'm a safe area, that's why). I don't mind. It would be pretty cool to have a male friend.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. A little.

Our Drama ends at 5:30 on Monday and we coincidentally—yes, seriously—happen to exit the schoolhouse at the same time. It's awkward because we start to walk in the same direction (the school is only about two miles from my home, so I always walk) and neither of us says a word. But then Edward stumbles and I, well, I laugh. Can't help myself! He just reminds me of, well, myself, really. Edward passes me a shy grin. He shrugs.

I break the silence before we go green from awkwardness. "Trying to hold up the pavement, huh?"

He messes with his hair. "Excuse me?"

We keep walking. I motion at our feet. "The pavement. It needs some holding. I hold it sometimes, too, when my daily mortification quota hasn't been filled. But you should see Emmett when he's drunk, that's a sight you won't forget. He's a professional pavement-holder."

Edward raises his eyebrows. I remain serious. Seconds pass before he chuckles. "You really_ are _something, aren't you?"

I nudge him. "I thought we already established that I'm _else_. You can be something, but I sure as hell am something _else_."

He raises his hands and steps away, exaggerating the size of his footstep. "Is it contagious?"

"_Else_? Or _something_?"

"Else."

"Highly. The weirdness sticks with you the more time you spend with me."

Edward shakes his head and dodges around a lamp-post. I can't tell if he's smiling or not, but it sounds like he is. "Are we really having this conversation?"

"No. You're dreaming. I'm holding your voodoo doll as we speak."

This time I'm certain he's smiling. "What will you make me do?"

I shrug. "Hold the pavement?"

Edward laughs.

I don't even know where he lives, but it's kind of fun to be walking home next to Edward. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry and neither am I. I usually walk either by myself (with earpads on) or with Angela (she has to catch a bus one block from our school). I have Drama on Mondays and Thursdays, so that's when I tend to saunter alone. Rarely—in the eclipse kind of rarely—Emmett (sometimes Jasper) joins me, but as already mentioned, I'm kind of a freaky-looking little sister with whom no-one would want to be seen publicly.

Okay, that's an exaggeration. You get the point.

Our school—North Cedar High—is sitting in the suburbs of Seattle. The schoolhouse is quite small and old, so few people attend it, but we have a (relatively) close-knit community and classmates usually know each other. It's not one of those huge schools with thousands of students where you suddenly discover at the end of your senior year that the dude roaring and croaking at every football game or the girl with an eye-twitch is your classmate. That just doesn't happen. (That's also one of the reasons the newbies are so easily recognized. You simply can't hide behind a glass wall.)

"Are you any good?" I ask when we cross the street. "At acting?"

He raises a shoulder before dropping it. "Um. Decent enough, I guess. I wouldn't consider it a profession. I just kinda like it. Nothing serious. You?"

I consider my chances of answering him honestly, but figure I should be vague if I don't want him to laugh at me. "As good as a table-leg could be, I hope. I like it too, though. It's fun." I smile. "So, what else do you do, other than writing mushy lyrics-poetry—" I purse my lips together (not to laugh) as he pulls a face. "—and not finding your way around a two-story schoolhouse?"

He pretends to be strict. "And you expect me to give you a serious answer after mocking me?"

"I don't _expect_ anything. If I did, though, then yes. Certainly. But I offer you the same courtesy. Mocking is probably the only useful thing Em has ever taught me."

Edward shakes his head. "That's kinda sad."

"The sad part is, I don't think he's actually taught me anything. I just used to be a really annoying sister," I pause. "Or, well, I guess I still am a very annoying sister. But I think it was worse when I was little."

"Well, that hasn't changed, you're still little," he notes not with sarcasm, not with a grimace or a once-over, just plain honesty. It hurts a little. I'm quiet for a few seconds to think my response through. I doubt many girls would take that as a bad thing, but for a girl who wishes look like a grown-up woman, I have to admit. It still hurts.

"Yeah." I shrug. "It's useful, too, sometimes. I'm the only girl in high school who can plausibly play a man. I make a kick-ass Schwarzenegger."

He smiles. "I bet."

I don't really focus on the way he doesn't realize how much that hurts, or how well I feign that it doesn't (because I can see that he had no idea I can behave like one of those overly sensitive women on TV. Then again, neither did I). I don't wallow in self-pity for long, though, just because there's no point and it doesn't make me any prettier.

"So, what do you like to do?"

Write this diary which I will soon burn and dedicate my life to film-making? That doesn't sound like the right answer.

"You answer first."

He sighs. "I'm pretty boring, really. I attempt to learn the guitar, I write "mushy poems" and I do some other stuff."

"I'm glad you're so specific. It's refreshing."

"You're very welcome."

We both start to kick a pebble before it disappears into a gully hole.

"Do you like it here?"

He scratches his (horribly disarrayed) hair. "Um. Not really. I hope it'll grow on me, though."

"Why'd you move here?"

"My dad got a job here. Pretty simple. It's an important job, so my mother quit hers to encourage him and I was, well, left without a choice. It's not like I'd fight, I'm old enough not to throw a tantrum, but still. It's a pretty big change."

"I'm sorry."

Why am I sorry? No idea.

"It's cool." He smiles. "No-one died or anything. Change is good, they say."

"Not unless it's hiding under Emmett's bed and starts to smell weird in a few days."

"Sorry, didn't catch that?"

I laugh. "Nothing of consequence. Don't worry."

(It wasn't guffawing? I might retreat to a pony!)

We find another pebble. It has the same fate that the first one did. I clench hands in my pockets because it's getting cold and I forgot my gloves. We're half a block away from my street.

"Your turn."

I tilt my head and watch as a cat jumps from the branch of an oak-tree to the roof of a house. I smile. "I like films. I used to have a director-based list of films I'd watch in chronological order, but I'm a little less geeky now. Now I just watch what I haven't seen. I tutor on Saturdays and work at the cinema on the weekends."

"Cool."

"It is. I always bring gloves to work."

He chuckle and I smile a little. We stroll in silence before Edward's phone rings. I try not to listen in, but it's not like I can cover my ears and start singing to myself.

"Edward. Yes. Yesterday evening?" A longer pause. "No. Not yet. Next week." A pause. "I can't, sorry. I have plans... I know. I know, I _know._ I didn't forget, no, I'd just like to adjust first—I'm not trying to wriggle out of anything." Edward seems to grow more annoyed. "I _know_. I'm on my way, half an hour away or so—Does it matter? We'll see. Bye."

Our eyes lock as he puts his phone away.

"Obligations?"

He shrugs. "You could say that."

We walk closer to my two-story house and I notice dad's cruiser's lights reflect from the garage door. That's so him. Edward doesn't realize I'd stopped before he's ten feet away, so he turns around and steps closer.

"Hey listen, I know—" I pause. I know we won't speak again after you've realized what a social suicide I am? I know I'm a weirdo, but I wouldn't mind speaking to you again? I know you'll be amongst the popular crowd in no time, but could you please not turn into a complete prick? I know I'm ugly, but you seem like a nice guy who doesn't mind having ugly friends?

"You know?"

"I know."

"Um. I don't. What do you know?"

"Nothing. I was just rambling is all."

He smiles. I hope it's genuine. "Guess I'll be seeing you around?"

"Yeah. Bye."

"See you." He waves before leaving. I watch him vanish from my viewpoint and step into the house. Dad is already watching football—Philadelphia Eagles vs. Washington Redskins—and I slump down next to him. I know enough about the Y-chromosome to know that I have to wait for a pause in the game to speak to him _and_ have his attention.

"Dad?"

"Honey."

"Can you give me the car keys?"

"Why?"

"I'm gonna have wild sex with Michael Newton, but we need a car."

He goes pale white in nanoseconds and then beetroot red a moment later, a change of color only Swans can go through in such a short amount of time.

"What—"

"Just kidding dad." His face starts to return to its normal color. "He wouldn't have sex with me even if I laid naked on his doorstep."

Again, his face pales. I sigh. "Dad, I'm not suicidal. I'm not into assholes. I'm also not a rebel, unless you haven't noticed. You need to stop worrying about this sort of thing." I'm also quite an ugly girl, but I don't want you to start assuring me otherwise, so perhaps I won't add that. "You just left the lights on."

"I did?" He walks to the window. "Oh. I did. Sure. They're in my left pocket. The blue coat." He turns up the volume as he sits. I turn off the lights of his police car. But in his car—other than an impossible amount of old coffee cups—is something I've never found before. A pink lipstick. It's kind of obscure so I'm not entirely sure if it's a lip gloss or a lipstick, but it sure as hell doesn't belong to my father. (Unless he has transvestite tendencies I'm unaware of. It would be fine, though. He could be besties with Eddie Izzard—how cool would that be?)

Is he seeing anyone? I don't know. The lip-gloss/lipstick smells terribly exotic and kind of nauseating, and I carefully place it back where I found it. I lock the car.

As I make dinner (it's my turn! exciting!), I hear Emmett and dad talk. Their conversation is connected to the game until the word 'Newton' makes me stop chopping carrots. I step closer to the doorway.

"—Bella's seeing anyone?"

I muffle a huff-snort. I expect Emmett to joke or snort, but he sounds surprisingly mature.

"Why won't you ask her?"

"You know me. I—I can't talk to her about that stuff."

"So I have to do it for you?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean. Do you know anything about that Newton guy? Are they seeing each other?"

"I doubt Newton's the one she's seeing."

"So she is seeing someone."

"Dad, I'm not a gossip column, how the hell should I know? _Seeing_ is a very wide concept. Ask her. She'll probably laugh at you, deny, and dismiss the subject. Since when is it hard to speak to her? She's Bella."

"She's—changed."

"That's what people do. They change. We're talking about a seventeen-year old. Besides, she's not as uptight about everything as she used to be, don't go and convince her she should lock up in her room and not date anyone. It's hard for her as it is."

I can't believe my ears. I've heard Emmett and dad speak about me before, but not like this. Emmett hasn't cracked a single joke. Aliens must've abducted my brother and replaced him with someone who—cares, really. It's new and weird and, well, sweet. Growing up with two men hasn't made me terribly open about my feelings, but it's nice to know Emmett cares. I realize I should've gone back to the kitchen, but having the chance to hear two people talk honestly about you, who could turn their back on that?

"What do you mean—hard for her as it is?" His voice lowers. "Is she being bullied?"

Exasperated with the conversation, Emmett sighs. "No. I mean, not anymore."

Dad's voice rises. "She—she's been bullied in the past? And you didn't tell me?"

"Oh, c'mon, dad. Leave it. Let's watch the game."

"No. I want to hear this."

"Dad. There's nothing to hear. She had a hard time in middle school, yes, but it's over. Don't bring it up with her."

"Why didn't you tell me? Did you do anything about it?"

"You couldn't have done anything. You don't just bark in and start talking shit about inner beauty like they do in the movies. Beating them up would've just ended with payback."

"So you didn't do anything?"

"No. I beat them up."

"I don't remember you—"

"May. Three years ago, a football injury. I came home with a broken wrist and a bruised face. Couldn't write for two months."

Shit, I remember that. I had no idea.

"Did it work?"

No 'you don't just use physical violence to solve problems,' dad?

"I'm not sure. I think that was the time she decided to change, so it might've been her own work. It seemed to have lessened, though. But that's unimportant. She's not bullied anymore."

"But why is she having a hard time?"

"Dad, I'm not a seventeen year old girl named Bella. Speak with her. Really."

"She's a—teenager. I don't know how."

"Dad, I think the problem here is not that she is a typical teenager, the problem is that she isn't."

There's a pause. I wonder if I've entered an alternate universe in which my brother voices my thoughts and knows my insecurities. Completely unreal.

"You mean, she has problems with the way she looks? She doesn't look _that_ bad."

"Dad, I'm done with this conversation. Get your head out of your ass and speak with her. You'll understand her better when you actually listen."

The volume of the football game is turned up, so I finish making dinner and go to my room. I'm not sure what's wrong with Emmett. Or what's right with him. Did he really beat him up three years ago? I remember the day, and it _had _been a day when he had a football practice, so I never questioned it. I wonder why he didn't tell me. Would I have the guts to admit I heard their conversation and now want to know if it was really Newton he beat up? Probably not.

It's nice to hear that Emmett isn't such an insensitive jock I imagined him to be. He actually cares.

Huh.

Lying on my bed, I'm so absorbed in trying to remember how Edward found 106 and trying to write it down as well as I could that I don't realize Emmett sneaks up on me. He reads a few lines of my diary, the ones starring Edward, and I know he saw his name.

Now he probably thinks I like him or something.

"So," Emmett says without any visible emotion.

I roll over. "You ever learned to knock?"

"The door was wide open."

"You could've still knocked."

He doesn't respond as he sits on my bed. I shut my diary and wait.

"Dad wanted me to speak to you, but I guess you already knew that."

"You knew I heard you?"

"Yeah, well, you usually make dinner pretty loudly. Today you didn't. Not nuclear science."

"Huh. Why didn't you tell me to go upstairs?"

"I figured it's best if you know to fear dad's attempt at being a dad. Y'know, prepare yourself and stuff."

"Thanks. That's nice of you."

He rubs his neck. "Hey, listen, I'm sorry about telling him about, you know."

"S'okay. He would've found out eventually." I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve, not knowing how to act around this new serious-ish Emmett. I'm not used to him not cracking jokes at everything I say. "I didn't know about, you know. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I figured you'd want to crawl out of the shit yourself. You're strong like that."

"Not to tell you you weren't right, but still, thank you."

"Worth every bruise." His eyes linger on my diary. "So, got a thing for Jazz's cousin already? I saw you pretty cozy in front of our house before."

"Emmett. I've known him for three days. He's just being nice to me."

"So?"

"No 'so.' Friends can be nice to each other." I raise my eyebrows and nudge his shoulder as his smile grows. "I'm serious. Don't you dare assume anything or say anything around him."

"See? You're afraid that he'll think you like him. So what if you do?"

I huff, amused. "Only you can confront your sister about nothing at all. Go play PlayStation or something."

He messes up my hair. "Will you do my homework meanwhile?"

"In your dreams."

He laughs. My brother can be quite tolerable sometimes.


	3. The Best Brother I Have

"Among Haldane's many specific preoccupations was nitrogen intoxication. For reasons that are still poorly understood, beneath the depths of about a hundred feet nitrogen becomes a powerful intoxicant. Under its influence divers are known to offer their air hoses to passing fish or decide to try to have a smoke break." — Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_, page 245

: :

_Friday, the 26th November  
10:44 PM. Lying in my blanket-castle and listening to A Rush of Blood to the Head by Coldplay._

You know how there are all these banal stories and television shows and films and books about a complete makeover of an insecure girl who is incredibly _repulsive_ (notice my sarcasm?) and whom no-one likes because she's just such a weirdo (the preferred plot including—but not limited to—the heroine who "doesn't realize her beauty" and "has a low self-esteem due to whatnot in her traumatic past"). And then suddenly, the hottest guy in school is dared to date her, and then she gets this complete makeover and everybody loves her and at the end of the movie, there's this big revelation how you should remain yourself and shit?

My point is, every time a makeover movie—_She's_ _All_ _That_, _Mean Girls, The Princess Diaries, Miss Congeniality_; only to name a few—starts so promising, with such a great idea about the lack of confidence and how it affects our way of thinking and acting, these films always end up disappointing me even if the movies happen to be better than average. Always. And you know why?

You guessed it.

Because, for Christ's sake—the "ugly" and "insecure" protagonist is never really ugly. Never do they actually put an ugly girl to play the ugly part. It's always just, 'Oh, let's give her braces and bushy eyebrows and make her fall a lot.' These things are _fixable_. You don't fix missing limbs, or a bumpy nose and a giant forehead unless you star in your very own Nip-Tuck, and I'd rather just avoid that. I might scare away the scalpels.

The stars in these films always have a jealous-worthy body, a tiny nose, beautifully shaped eyebrows and a smile to die for. They don't have a missing limb. They're not blind or overweight, nor do they usually have anything actually _wrong_ with them. They don't. And don't tell me that lack of fashion sense is a deep problem; it's commonly only a lack of _interest_, not a lack of sense. If you have interest, you'll find the sense. No interest, no sense.

Now, I'm not insanely jealous of beautiful people. Well, no, don't listen to me, of course I am. But only to a point, because for all that it's worth, I don't think being prejudiced against a girl who's fortunate to have a pretty face and curves in the right places is going to help anything. I actually think being beautiful is a responsibility, just like being smart is. Not that I'd know anything of either of those. Not really.

Okay, enough of this sappy stuff.

So a week ago on Thursday, after Edward's third time to join us in Acting, he decides our weirdness isn't enough of an excuse to be "excluded from our awesomeness" (and yes, these are his words, not mine), so he'll "attempt to, _um_, add his reasonable amount of bad guitar-playing" if only "we're up for a horrible music-raping." Needless to add, everyone gets along with Edward's awkwardness really well, so we kind of throw him a party. _Kind of_, because instead of booze, we have sickeningly sweet syrup from the cafeteria, and instead of a cake, we find a cupcake freakishly similar to a certain naked part of a female reproductive organ. I don't think anyone other than me and Edward notices, thank God. They ask why I suddenly changed colors (they've already learned the Swans' tendency to change colors with the speed of light), but I make a lame joke about having ADD — Attention Deficit Disorder — and desperately needing the attention. And the cake. And to top off my invalid point, I hiccup. Everyone laughs. Edward does, too.

Have I already written about my brilliant hiccupping at the most suitable moments?

I can already see my wedding day—that is, if I ever find myself a man. Anyway, at the altar, when I'm going to be asked whether I would love my man forever and yada-yada, can you imagine if I go just, "Huck!"

"Will you, Isabella Marie Swan—"

"Huck!"

"Take this man—"

"Huck!"

"To be your lawfully wedded—"

"Huck!"

It would be epic.

After the party, we practice the songs for the musical—with the addition of a few choir members who can, y'know, _actually_ _sing_, and agree that Edward bring his guitar to school on Monday. He doesn't look too happy, but he's already made the mistake of telling us about his, _um_, guitar attempts, so it's only inevitable that he'd add his instrument to the piano.

I've gotten to know him a little better, too, because on the same eighteenth of November, we leave the wardrobe (yes, we have that in our school) together, and he actually asks if it's okay for us to walk together. I know! I can't believe I've met a guy as humble as Edward, and so passively straight-forward. It's like he actually thinks I'd be all, "No, ew, you're a _boy_!"

That would be kind of awesome, wouldn't it?

But of course I don't say that—as I already might have mentioned, I think it would be amazing to have a guy best friend. Think of all the questions I could get answers to! I'd love that. I want to know if all men want _is_ actually sex. (So that I could buy myself a chastity belt and join the nearest celibacy club.) Not that I'd ever have that problem, because millions of guys are lining up behind my door, har-har. They'd feel like pedophiles with my size-A cup and hipless structure. Maybe I should aim for pedophiles right away? That's a thought.

Err, no. No way. Sorry, eager pedophiles out there.

Other than being a tad obsessed with films, I'm kinda fascinated by gestures, so Edward's occasional hand through his comb?-is-that-new-brand-of-coffee? hair and shrug with his right shoulder get registered and put away for further use in understanding characters.

"Do you sometimes wonder why we're here?" I kick yet another pebble that gets on my way. We've been walking for a few minutes.

"Are you high?"

"I'm always high, Edward. Always."

He chuckles. "On what?"

I make a mock-gooey face and battle my eyelashes. "You, Edward, who else?" Before he could answer, I burst into laughter and nudge him. "Dream on."

"Gee, thanks. I'm really that good-looking, huh?" His rhetorical question doesn't serve its purpose, and before I can help myself, I roll my eyes.

"Yeah," I agree. "Disgusting to look at, especially compared to me. Your ugliness blinds me, Edward!" I place palms on my eyes. "You're so ugly you made me blind!"

"Uh, thanks, Bella. Always boosting my confidence."

"You're very welcome."

We stop in front of red light, and simultaneously shove our hands in our pockets (away from the cold). I kind of enjoy how he doesn't seem to mind my strange ways.

"But really. What are your theories about why we're here?"

"Um, because there's a red light and we can't cross the street?"

"Edwa-ard! I'm serious."

"So am I."

We watch the animated red stickman as an unsuccessful hand with a pointing finger enlarges and vanishes after covering the black screen. Halfway in, the palm looks like an excited part of male anatomy.

"Look at that! I've never realized they're encouraging men to have an erection while waiting for the green light."

Edward snorts a laugh I've never heard before. He struggles to breathe even when we've crossed the street. The tips of his ears are a little red when he speaks.

"Only you, I swear."

"Only I—what?"

"You know." Edward lifts his right shoulder before finding the words. His eyes, somewhat cautious-looking, flicker from my face to the ground. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think I've ever met a girl like you."

I fake-pout and battle my eyelashes. "What—a perfect combination of stunningly gorgeous and tactful seriousness?"

He lets out a good-hearted laugh, but as if realizing what he was laughing at, stops and averts his eyes. "Sorry. I, um, didn't mean to…"

"Oh my God, Edward!" I shake my head, smiling as I take a moment to try and be serious. "Please stop doing that. I don't mind that you think I'm ugly. I know I am. You don't have to be so cautious around me."

"You're not ugly," Edward mutters, embarrassed, as if saying it will make me prettier. His intentions are good, and I respect that, but he has to realize he doesn't need to sweet talk me into anything.

"Unsightly? Appalling? Repulsive? Take a pick, it ain't gonna make my face any prettier."

"How can you be like that?"

"Like what?"

"You know, like you don't care."

"Do you want me to lock up in my room and never show my giant forehead to any living creature? Are you worried they'll have a heart attack? 'cause I certainly am."

"Of course not," Edward denies. "But as I said, I've never met a girl like you, and please take that as a compliment. It's like—you don't care about looking strange or making faces or laughing at yourself. That's a good thing."

"Millions and millions of men are out there, dreaming of the ugly duck who never became the swan!" I gesture at an elderly man who almost stumbles on his cane. I make sure he's okay before we continue our walk. "_And_ I have the worst name in the world." I laugh. "What an utter mockery. Oh my God."

"What—Swan?"

"And _Bella_. Someone up there really hates me." I pause. "No, actually—someone in Arizona really hates me. Namely my mom."

The tips of Edward's ears grow pink. "I kinda like your name."

"No, no, no. I'm not complaining about the name, don't get me wrong. I'm just pointing out the mockery in the situation. As soon as I get home and break into Emmett's room, I'll google how to say 'ugly' in Italian, and 'duck.' And when that's done, I'm ready to officially change my name." I proudly raise my chin. "At least I'll be able to live up to it."

He still looks embarrassed to be discussing my ugliness, but I'm sure I can make him feel at ease joking about my appearance. Or lack thereof.

"Why'd you need to break into Emmett's room for that?"

"I don't have a computer in my room. It's tragic. For a while, I was certain I'd done something to make dad mad at me, but then I asked him and he said it was because he's older. But I think." I lower my voice. "I think he's afraid I'll find pornography on the Internet. He doesn't want his little girl to know where babies come from."

The pinkish color at the tips of his ears doesn't fade. "Sounds like you've figured it out by yourself."

"Oh, yeah, it took real detective skills to figure that one out."

Sadly, my block arrives what feels like a second later, and soon we stand in front of my house, both of our hands still in our pockets. Because I didn't want him to go, I inhale to gather the courage and ask him inside to watch a movie. Or something.

"Hey, would you—"

"I guess I'll see you—"

I mentally throw my brain onto the pavement, jump on it and squish the jiggling mass into pieces so tiny it should evaporate and vanish. Ta-da! Sadly, all my body is capable of is a shade of beetroot red on my face. Great.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

I shrug. "Ah, nothing. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course. Bye." He eyes me before turning around and crossing the street. Seconds later, he disappears from my point of view. Yes, I watch. But the moment he's gone, I place my bag on the pavement, step next to the oaken tree in front of our house, and bang my head against it, groaning. Way to go, Bella, way to go.

As soon as I step into the house and put down my bag, I see Emmett lean on the doorframe, observing me with a smirk. Every sister in every corner of the world recognizes that smirk, and I am no different.

"Aww, did Eddie reject little Belly-poo?"

"Aww, did Emmett lose the brain cells that told him not to care?"

"So you like Edward, huh?"

I muffle a groan. "Just because we walk home together doesn't mean I like him."

"Sure it doesn't. Su-ure."

"Is there a pact we can make to make you stop talking?"

Emmett rubs his chin, a mocking or an unconscious habit he's gotten from our father. I haven't figured out which yet. "Do my homework for a week, and I promise not to tease you about anything. For the week, that is."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Keep dreaming."

"Would you like Edward to mysteriously find out a girl named Bella fancies him?"

"How much repetition gets through your thick skull? I do not like him!"

"Su-ure. And even if that's the case, he doesn't have to know that."

I have two choices. I could either make Emmett feel bad about mocking my appearance—he obviously thinks Edward would be disgusted, with which I wholeheartedly agree—or I could let him know two could play this game. Like a true guy, I go with the latter.

"Would you like dad to see your porn collection?"

His face pales, but only a little, and he recovers quickly—for a Swan, anyway. "You—you don't know my passwords."

"Wanna try me?"

"I—I…" He hesitates! Twice, my brother challenged me to guess his password. Need I say how many times I've succeeded with fewer than four guesses? Twice. Emmett is utterly predictable, and he knows it.

"Next time you want to corner me, make sure you'd have more to gain than to lose. Also, those magazines in the garage on the top shelf under a box of screwdrivers?" He's pale, very, very pale. "Yes, those. Might wanna find those a better place."

I can almost hear Queen's _We Are the Champions_ in the background as I leap upstairs. I spend the evening studying and reading _Water for Elephants_ by Sara Gruen. I'm overall in an inexplicably happy mood before a knock on my door makes me drop my book and jump from the bed. Emmett does not knock, and that only leaves one option. And dad barely ever invades my space.

No, scratch that. He _never_ invades my space.

"It's open!" I yell unnecessarily. My door has no lock. (Woo-hoo for privacy!)

Hesitating, dad steps in my room and closes the door after him. Uh-oh. I pick up my book, sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and wait as he observes my clattered walls filled with posters, poems, comics, newspaper cut-outs and self-made scribbles. It's the first time in about a month or so I've given a glance at it. I realize how out-dated the wall is. I should really spend one evening taking down the old stuff and rearranging my wall.

"Damn. I didn't make supper tonight! I'm so sorry, dad, I completely forgot—"

Dad waves his hand, motioning he doesn't care, and slides the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed, facing me. He scratches his wicked mustache and eyes my book, probably as eager to postpone the conversation (I guess he wants to have) as I am.

"What're you reading?"

I pick it up, going along with his beat-around-the-bush strategy. He's completely different from me in that sense. I'm blunt. He isn't, at least not with me.

"Oh, it's a great book. Lots of gore and kinky sex scenes. I'm learning a lot from this."

Dad blushes such a deep shade of beetroot pink he actually makes me concerned for his health.

"Dad." I squeeze his hand. "Just kidding. It's a joke, you know, har har."

He's not amused. "Why've you been doing that lately?"

Because I figured good actors chose roles they feared they couldn't deliver. I used to be evasive and terrified when sex was mentioned, or, you know when a person came to school to talk about that stuff and some students would avert their eyes and pretend to be completely cool about it? I was one of them. I listened to the guys in our class make fun of the bananas, and pretended not to. So I guess it was kind of a real life experiment. I really, _really_ wish I could be as cool about it as my sarcasm showed.

"I guess I want you to be cooler about it."

Not knowing how to answer, he looks at my wall and takes several breaths. After smoothing his moustache to a point it must show my precise reflection, he says, "Bella, you know I'm no good at this."

"Good! Neither am I. Can we skip the conversation and pretend it never happened?"

"No," he states firmly albeit awkwardly. "Listen me out here."

"Sorry."

"You know how much I care about you, right?"

"Of course I do."

"And I… I heard you've had a tough time at school, and I just wanted to make sure you knew I'm here for you."

I'm relieved—I'd feared a much more awkward conversation with the topic of boys and safety. If you catch my drift.

"Of course I do."

He leans a little closer yet averts his eyes. "If anyone ever gives you a hard time again, tell them they'll have to deal with me."

Su-ure, dad. I can already imagine it.

"_Bella, your forehead looks particularly huge today, are there any elephants in your ancestry?"_

"_My daddy is a policeman!"_

Su-ure.

"Don't worry, dad, I'm not being bullied. I get along with everyone."

"Good, good," he continues absent-mindedly. "I also wanted to say—at a certain age, you know, you might become interested in, you know, what happens when…"

I muffle my laughter.

"Sorry, continue."

He fiddles with the edge of my blanket. "I just want you to be safe when, you know."

Do tell me more.

"Dad, I know you mean well, and I know you're concerned, but just so you know—in order to have sex, you usually have to have a partner. So even if I had the sudden urge to have wild animalistic sex in our front yard, I'd have to find a willing partner. Neither of which are my priorities right now."

He looks so utterly relieved I'm almost offended. "So, there's no one…"

"And probably never will be anyone. And if I suddenly find a blind man, I assure you I have no intention of having children before I've graduated from college."

"Good, good." He stands. "Wait—what do you mean by a blind man?"

"Nothing, dad." I offer a smile. "Just kidding."

"Oh. But if you ever have questions about, you know."

"Sex?"

"Well, yeah. You can always ask me, okay?"

_Dad, is it true that when a man blows into a woman's vagina, the air bubble can find a way to her heart and become fatal?_

Su-ure.

"Duly noted."

"Well, if you're hungry, Emmett made some fried potatoes. I think they're still warm."

Emmett?

Potatoes?

Wow, I am still in the alternate universe.

I skip every second step in my urge to escape from the conversation. I throw myself some potatoes and land right next to a munching Emmett in no time. He takes a moment to chew and swallow before asking, "So?"

"Since when do you cook?"

"Since I became hungry and you weren't around," he replies. "So?"

"What do you expect me to say?"

"I dunno, what did dad talk about?"

I let out a semi-groan/semi-chuckle and try not to choke on the rather edible potatoes. (I think I'll make Emmett cook every day from now on.)

"Guess."

He puts down his plate. "No way."

"Way."

"Shit. I've never had that conversation with him."

"Yeah, wasn't exactly the best moment of my life, especially considering I've never actually_ had_ sex. Jeez, I've never even kissed anyone, and now dad's acting like I'm going to jump into bed with the first male-prostitute I find. Or something."

Emmett blinks rapidly, stares at me, and cocks his head back in one of the most boisterous laughing fits.

"What?"

He gives me a friendly nudge. "I don't really know you that well after all, huh? I always thought I did."

"What do you mean? Are you suggesting that you thought—" I snort a laugh. "Seriously, Emmett? With who?"

"No, not that. It's just that I never thought we could be having this conversation. I didn't think you were capable of even saying the word."

"Sex?"

"Yeah."

I shift in my seat. "Have you ever—You know what? Don't."

Emmett puts down his plate. We both watch as dad descends from the staircase, asks us why we're suddenly so quiet and mutters something about groceries. A little awkwardly, Emmett turns to me. "I know you don't go gossiping around about this. And I'm pretty sure you're risking dad's health if you start talking about this with him, so—I'm here, y'know."

"Thanks."

With feigned negligence, he observes his plate and says, "I'll deny this if my opinion of you is off and this information gets out of this room, but… I haven't, y'know."

I nearly swallow potatoes down the wrong tube. With a face that could not be any redder, I choke, "You're kidding me." I think my entire perception of high school jocks just went down the drain. It's not like I imagine him having a sex life, but, well, I knew for a fact some girls are high over heels for my brother. (Two even so much so that they attempted to become my friends to visit (me and ogle at) Emmett.) And, I'd heard rumors that claimed otherwise.

So, really? My big brother hasn't done it yet.

Huh.

"But… why?"

Emmett chokes a laugh, looking almost as embarrassed as I feel. But not quite. "It's not like I haven't done things. I've… well, done stuff. But I haven't gone the whole way." He glanced over at me and frowns in all his redness. "Why so surprised?"

"But you're—I don't understand. I've heard girls who've claimed to, er, well…"

He shrugs as if we were talking about football scores. "Well, I haven't."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

"Probably not."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Good. I don't want to hear it."

He laughs. We resume to our potato eating before I feel Emmett's eyes on me. "Would you tell me if you…"

"Jesus! Emmett, please." I choke a laugh. "Please don't. Not only am I not attractive enough to find a guy before the age of eighty seven, I'm also not having this conversation with you."

"But if someone hurts you, you know you can threaten them with me, right?"

I smile at my plate. "I didn't know you cared so much, Emmett."

"I don't. I just keep you around to cook for me."

"You're a jerk."

"Just admit it, I'm the best brother you have."

"You're the _only_ brother I have."

"My point exactly."


	4. Asleep in Boy's Arms

"Welcome. And congratulations. I am delighted that you could make it. Getting here wasn't easy, I know. In fact, I suspect it was a little tougher than you realize. To begin with, for you to be here now trillions of drifting atoms had somehow to assemble in an intricate and intriguingly obliging manner to create you. It's an arrangement so specialized and particular that it has never been tried before and will only exist this once. For the next many years (we hope) these tidy particles will uncomplainingly engage in all the billions of deft, cooperative efforts necessary to keep you intact and let you experience the supremely agreeable but generally underappreciated state known as existence." — Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_, page 1

: :

_Sunday, the 28th of November  
09:56 PM. Stretching on my bed and inadvertently listening to an amazing song from Emmett's room. He has taste. Who knew?_

You know, I totally get it why so many actresses cut off their hair after ten or so years of having a clause in their contract that establishes exactly the lengths—ahem—to which they are allowed to cut their hair. Must be stifling. If someone told me not to paint my fingernails for ten years, I would surely find the first store that provides said product and paint my nails pitch black. Just because I can, and for no other reason. It's like having a red button on your wall with the sign, "Do not push."

And you know something else? I think Emma Watson looks sexy with short hair. There. I said it. Feel better for it. They claimed that Keri Russell's _Felicity_ ratings dropped after she cut off her hair, but honestly, if the fans are as shallow as to not watch a show for something as trifle as the length of someone's hair, that's kind of low. I mean, I wouldn't stop watching _House MD_ if Mr. Laurie cut off his leg and grew a carrot out of his ear. He's _that_ amazing.

And that girl from _Smallville_? What's her name? Ah. Kristin Kreuk, she cut off her hair the moment she left that show.

Notice a pattern here?

I can't understand why everyone's so surprised when a gorgeous female cuts off all their hair. Can you imagine how liberating that must be? I'd cut off my hair in a heartbeat if I had features akin to any of the aforementioned women. Anne Hathaway, Michelle Williams, Carey Mulligan, Audrey Tautou; I mean, I just don't get it why anyone would find a problem in their choice to get rid of the curls.

Who finds a problem with it, you ask? Well, Emmett, for sure. He told me once that every guy—and he did emphasise _every guy—_out there wants a woman with long hair. What the fuck. And they claim that women are shallow.

Huh.

If I had a face with features to back it up, I'd cut off my hair just for the simple joy of annoying Emmett. And on the off-chance that he happens to be right, my chances of finding a prince won't be stifled anyway. (My doorstep swarming with eager hunks and all that, remember.)

: :

_Tuesday, the 30th of November  
4.55 PM. Listening to the sound of rain pouring on my windows. It rained all night yesterday.  
_

It all starts with the fact that I forget my phone at home. It might seem like a harmless enough thing to do, but remember this for further reference. So, there I am, strolling through the corridors with my phoneless pocket and conversing with some of my Drama peers. It starts out as a day like any other. Edward and I get an A- in our Ozone layer project (we ceremoniously high-five each other), I get an A+ in Advanced Algebra and a very lonely, sad D in PE. Stupid high jump. If I needed to jump higher than three feet, I'd hire a kangaroo.

Yes, I know you can't hire a kangaroo. Whatever. The point is, I am not a high jumper. I cannot jump to save my life. But bleh, D might be my worst grade yet, but it's not a disaster or anything. Charlie doesn't seem to care less if I got As or Xs, anyway.

Ehm, veering off topic again. So, as if to make up for my lack of a phone, Edward seems to be glued to his. And I mean glued. Not that I've known him for a long time, you know I haven't, but I've never seen him so engrossed in a piece of technology. We only sit together in three classes—Biology, AP Chemistry and AP History—but our school is rather little and I still see him in corridors and such.

"Are you okay?" I ask as we wait for our fifth lesson, AP History, to begin. We sit next to each other in all three classes we share, you see, because he doesn't know that many people yet. It's going to be pretty painful when he gets his head up his ass once he gets popular. It's only a matter of time.

He nearly drops his phone but shrugs (only pretending to be nonchalant, trust me).

"I don't know."

"Is there any way I can help you?"

His typing halts to a stop as he, for the first time today, makes eye contact. I notice how incredibly tired he appears to be.

"I appreciate the offer. But no."

I wonder if I should push him or not. If things are serious, I mean, really serious, shouldn't he be with his family?

As gently as I can, I ask, "Has anything happened?"

Taken aback by my caring—or prying—he keeps his eyes locked with mine, probably trying to figure out if he can trust me or not. He doesn't say a word for so long I back off. You know, I am well aware that for many people, I'm a girl too curious for her own good. Or, in Emmett's loving words, 'a curious piece of shit.' He later apologized for that comment, but at that fragile age when so many people gave me hell at school, it was difficult to forget a comment such as that one.

"Sorry." I smile so as to assure him I'm okay with his silence. "I didn't really mean to pry."

It's just that Edward doesn't have many friends here in Seattle (yet), and somebody should care, right? I care.

"No, it's not that at all. It's just a long, messed up story."

"Not to pressure you, but FYI, I'm imagining you have an illegitimate child back in Chicago."

He actually laughs. It's sudden and quite a charming sound that echoes in the classroom. Everyone stops their talking to eye us, and Edward stifles his laughter.

"Thanks," he says, tired but smiling. "I needed that."

"So it's not an illegitimate child back in Chicago," I muse, tapping a finger on my chin, pretending to be calculating the possibilities of his worry. "A girl?"

His lifts one of his shoulders. "Kinda."

_Kind_ _of_ a girl? Now that _that's_ all figured out.

"A transvestite friend going through gender surgery?"

Once again, he laughs, but successfully stifles it not to draw attention. "Jesus, Bella. In the future, if I have any problems at all, which I will, please remind me to simply spend time with you."

He emphasizes _you._ I pound on my chest and raise my chin all-too-high. "Not to worry, my dear friend, you shall endure your hardships no more."

This time, a few people in the classroom laugh as well. I smile at them.

"Seriously, though." I look back at Edward and let my expression sober. "I know you're pretty new over here, and I dunno why you're so wound up today, but if you need someone to, you know, vent to, I'm here. I know I'm a girl and everything, which is a minus in this kind of a situation, but I'm not the gossiping kind. I swear. Even Emmett can back me up on this one. Due to my lack of caring of my social status, or perhaps because of it, people only get information from me if I want them to. I rarely do, but the point is, it's my choice to make."

"Thanks, Bella." He offers a friendly, completely at ease smile. For the first time, I realize Edward can be pretty smooth sometimes—even after a rant like mine, he doesn't mock me or anything. That, my friends, is an 'aw' moment right there.

"But no-one's died or anything?"

"No." His expression sobers. "Hopefully not by tomorrow, either."

I shut up after that. I tend to make a joke almost in any situation, anywhere, any time, but this is the one situation I flat-out refuse to joke about. If he wants to share, he knows where to find me.

: :

Evening draws closer. Drama draws closer. One oh six, the auditorium, or hall, or the big room with the stage—or whatever—is filled with my Drama peers by four o'clock. I count seventeen souls, overall a good turn-up (the flu season had started after all), and motion for the guys and gals to have a seat at the edge of the stage. They do. Since our teacher Peter Gallaghe is still at the conference in Cleveland, OH, I continue to be their teacher of sorts. None of them seem to mind; in fact, most of them think it's inevitable that I should be their leader in the absence of Mr. Gallaghe. I'm pretty flattered, but I am not about to reveal that to them. Honestly, the teasing I would get.

Now, let me tell you something about Peter Gallaghe. He's been in our school two years, and you know how old he is? He's twenty four. Yes, you heard me right. He is the epitome of a high school girl crush in our school. He's athletic, intelligent, and knows how to have a good laugh. In spite of his appearance—always an appalling-colored vest with a tie—he doesn't take himself seriously at all. I mean, he's only a few years older than us.

Three years ago, with strict and old-fashioned and incredibly talented in the ways of opening us up, the old Mrs. Pope was a good teacher. She really was. But she was visibly tired by our energy and retired at the end of the year. She'd been our school's Drama teacher for nineteen years. And you know how Peter got that job? He's Mrs. Pope's grandson. He was supposed to be a temporary teacher. But I think I speak for all of us when I say we were very glad to see him stay. He's good fun.

Now, Mrs. Pope was great at what she did, but three years ago, there was barely nine of us in the Drama class. Not a whole lot. So, imagine my surprise when I entered one oh six as a freshman. Fifty people—yes, _really—_turned up for Drama. Now, for a school as tiny as ours, that's phenomenal, and I wondered who the hell had held them at gunpoint for them to enlist in a Drama class.

And then I saw him. Tall, muscly but lean, with a ridiculous-looking pink vest, a silky purple tie, and an eyebrow piercing. You know how many people can pull that combination off? Well, he could, and I could see the reason for that day's phenomenal turn-up. Most of high school's female population was here, after all. That year, we had forty four people in Drama class. We broke the record. But luckily, most of the ladies who were there for the man meat fizzled out. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against any of these girls, but if you're doin' it for the wrong reasons, you're doin' it for the wrong reasons. I didn't quit when Mrs. Pope was temporarily absent four years ago due to her mother's death, and was replaced by an absolute asshole who yelled at us so much we feared to breathe. _Eight_ people quit because of him. Eight of us. I stayed. I was used to being tormented, and being yelled at was nothing out of the ordinary at that time. I could never quit Drama. It probably saved my life.

Oh, I'm being overly dramatic, you know what I mean.

And just to be clear, I do not have a girl crush on Peter Gallaghe. He's harmless fun for all of us, and he's been super supportive getting me out of my shell and making me consider SUNY, Purchase College in Purchase, NY. He doesn't know it, but he's the one who's given me the confidence to try. Whether I get in or not is another matter altogether, but I've made a promise to myself I will try. And I will.

"Glad to see you all here as I continue to pretend I know shit about acting. So for today, we'll try finishing reviewing the first act, and if we're lucky, Edward has agreed to show off his phenomenal guitar skills and sing us a song tonight."

A few girls whoop—yes, whoop—and everyone turns their heads. But Edward? He pales and nervously looks at his guitar next to a lonely chair.

"Um, no, I didn't."

"But you've brought your guitar, so you might as well play something for us. You're gonna sing in the musical regardless, right?" Tanya asks. She's a beautiful, half-Russian with an accent. She moved here a few years ago. She's also a bit shy. It's safe to say I like her.

"Excellent point well made, Tanya."

She smiles.

"Er, I'd rather not. Really. I'm not that good." He wants to tell them they weren't going to hear him play or sing. And with that expression? It's working.

"But you brought your guitar. It defeats the point of having done that."

"It's no big deal."

We stare at each other for a few seconds before I sigh. "Okay. Mr. Cullen is off the hook for now. Let's stop wasting time. We'll pair up and review the dialogue, and it would be cool if each of you could come up with a couple of changes. Honestly, who came up with this shit?"

Laurent, a senior jock, yells, "Mr. Gallaghe did!"

They chuckle.

"Right. Well, too bad, he's gonna suffer. Do you want me to pair you up or are you comfortable doing it yourselves?"

They pair up, and I get the one left behind. You know the one. The one who doesn't quite think they belong yet, who doesn't quite know how to clique works, and in all honesty, the one who doesn't know that nobody gives a shit in our Drama class. Everyone's super cool, and I could pair off the most seemingly arrogant hunk with the shiest girl, and they'd work it out. Because that's the way we do things. (Or maybe because I'd give them _so_ much shit if they didn't.)

Edward ends up with a teeny-tiny girl from the fifth grade, Irina, who speaks in the softest volume possible and blushes every time Edward says his name. It's über cute. I think he got himself another admirer.

So, I get Laurent. He's an African-American, and I am honestly quite puzzled as to why he decided to take Drama this year next to football. He's neither shy nor cocky, but it's obvious he doesn't think he belongs. It's not that he doesn't belong, it's that he _thinks_ he doesn't. And that changes everything.

I let Edward off the hook because I could see how much the horror of having to play in front of his peers distracts him. So I pull him to the side to ask if it would be better if he played only for me, just so I'd know if we could use his skills in the musical or not. He's relieved.

We have so much fun changing the lines we lose track of time. By the time everyone leaves, it's half to seven. We've never rehearsed for that long, and I apologize all I can, but no-one seems to mind. But now, Edward and I sit in the first row, just the two of us. The corridors are silent. It's dark and rainy outside.

"So."

"Don't be so nervous, Edward, it's nothing big. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. I'd just like to see if you'd like to be an addition to our musical."

"I'm not that good, really." He unzips his guitar-case. "And before you start to reassure me, I'm not being false-modest. I'm really not that good."

"Let me be the judge of that. I promise not to laugh if you're hideous."

"Thanks. Such a reassurance."

I laugh. He starts to look for something from his pockets and curses as he can't find it. "I guess I can't play for you, I left my pick at home."

"Oh, there's some in the back room."

His smile vanishes.

"Honestly, Edward? Do you have a stage fright? It's just me, friendly neighborhood Bella. I can even play some guitar for you, if you'd like, and that _will_ be hideous. I've never touched a guitar in my life."

"Okay. Where's the back room?"

"It's down there."

The back room is a tiny room in the basement. The door is on the side of the stage, it goes down twenty steps or so, and there's a minuscule room with a few costumes, a few tennis balls and yes, picks. I know there are picks because Mr. Gallaghe plays guitar, too, and he's a prodigy or something. He's that good.

I lead Edward downstairs. It's dim and dingy and if the auditorium is silent then over here it's eerily so. The school could burn down and we wouldn't hear a thing. I'm glad he's not interested in exploring this room because it always creeps me out. Ever since I was little.

We find a silver pick, switch off the lights and climb upstairs. He lifts the guitar in his lap as I curl my feet under myself.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Pretty much anything goes."

He pauses. "Want to hear the truth?"

"Well, I'd always assumed you've been truthful, but alright."

"I actually prefer to strum with my fingers."

I let out a laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You really hate doing this right now, don't you?"

"It's not that I hate it. It's just difficult for me to put myself out there. You know, I've never figured how singers could sing the songs they write for everyone to hear. It's so personal."

I stay silent. He starts strumming, gently, a goofy expression on his face, telling me he's not taking this seriously at all. It's a cool tune but I don't recognize it. He messes up bits and pieces, but he's not tone-deaf, neither is he bad.

The moment he raises his (yes, green) eyes, I smile at him. "What is it?"

"House of the Rising Sun, recorded by The Animals, I believe. The F-Major chord is kinda difficult. Do you like it?"

"It's cool."

"Bella," he says. "Be honest. Am I awful?"

And I know that if I were to think it's horrible, and tell him so, he'd stay away from playing for anyone, probably ever. His expression is so earnest, so naked and open for my criticism, that immediately I know I might be the only one he's ever played his guitar, or one of the only ones. That's a lot of responsibility to have.

If anyone—still talking to you, Emmett—reads this, you'll probably think I'm a prick for not gushing about how amazing he is. But I don't want to lie. He's not bad, not at all, but he does occasionally mess up and he's got a lot to learn. But I can honestly say one thing—he's definitely got a lot of potential.

"That's really good."

I'm not lying. He's good.

"You think so?" He perks up. "I know I mess up some places, but I love playing, so I figure I'll improve."

"Of course you will. And I do. Would you mind strumming a few songs for us in the musical?"

"You really want me to?"

"I'd love it."

"Then sure. But please give me some time to adjust to the Drama class. Don't make me play for them on Thursday."

"Okay."

"Which songs do you want me to play?"

"I'll talk it over with Peter and let you know so you could start practicing early on. Is that okay?"

He starts strumming another song, but looks up. "Sure. Who's Peter?"

"Peter Gallaghe, our Drama teacher."

"You call him by his first name?"

"Edward, when you meet him on Thursday, you will see it's impossible to call him Mr. Gallaghe. He's only a few years older than us. The girls adore him."

"Including you?" he jokes.

"_Especially_ me! Why do you think I'm in Drama?"

He's so startled—probably by my "honesty"—he misses a few chords. I laugh. "Seriously, Edward? I know we haven't known each other for long but—seriously? You think I'd do that?"

"I don't know, would you?"

"God, no!"

He smiles. "You're really good at the whole Drama thing, you know."

"Thanks, Edward. I'm glad you think so."

"The others think so, too, it's obvious."

I smile and stand, wiping imaginary dust off my bottom. "Thanks for playing for me. I know you didn't really want to, so I appreciate it all the more. I guess we should pack our stuff and head home? Everyone else has probably left. Except for the gym teacher. He always here it seems."

He puts his guitar back into the case. I tell him to leave the pick on the piano—I can put that away tomorrow—and we climb upstairs to the back of the room. I turn the doorknob, but the door doesn't move. Thinking I've forgotten the way the door works, I pull, but again, it doesn't move.

It's locked.

"Are there any other doors?" Edward asks.

"Well, shit. It's the only one."

"No emergency exits?"

"There's only one two-glass window, and it's—way up there."

The window is, like, eleven feet above the stage floor. There is no way we're able to climb that high, or even if I could climb on his shoulders, what would he do? I wouldn't leave him here alone.

"Alright. Let's yell for help. My dad's a cop, and he's always emphasized that whenever you need help, don't just yell, 'Help!' but 'Fire!' He claims it way more effective."

"Okay."

"On three."

"One. Two." We pause, looking at each other. "Three."

"Fire!" we both yell. We repeat the numbers, shout with all the capacity our lungs are able to provide, and wait. Nothing. We do it again.

Nothing happens.

"Can you call your parents?"

"Right."

He takes phone from his pocket. It's dead. I'm not surprised, really. He's been using it the entire day. It's an iPhone. That's a clusterfuck of battery death right there.

"What other choices do we have?"

"Sing."

"What?"

"Sing," I repeat. Taking two steps at once, I walk back to the front of the stage and put down my bag. He follows my actions.

"Do you have anything left of your lunch?"

He takes our his lunchbox. "An apple, a granola bar and half a sandwich."

"Anything to drink?"

"Sparkling water," he sighs. "Unopened. I hate sparkling water. I accidentally took that one."

"Good, we can switch. I have a bunch of caramel candies, chocolate, and a bottle of multivitamin drink." I gaze at him, trying to comprehend without asking whether or not he's the type of person who's going to flip out and panic in a situation like this one.

"Good," he says. "At least we have liquids."

I nod.

"Do you want to try to kick off the door?"

"Should I? It looks kind of sturdy."

We look at the door. It really is one of those old-school wooden doors.

"No offense or anything, but a guy thrice the size of you couldn't probably kick off that door."

"Chuck Norris could."

"No, he couldn't. He'd just blow it off its hinges. Or walk straight through it."

He laughs. It's a liberating sound in a situation like this one, so I join. We sit on a long bench in front of the piano, and look at each other.

"Now what? We just wait for the morning?"

"I guess."

He smiles. "I'm glad you're not the type of girl to freak out or cry."

"You know, I was thinking the exact same thing earlier. How much more difficult it would be for me to deal with a guy who starts yelling and blaming me or freaking out. Thanks for not doing that. Although it really might be my fault."

"Why do you think so?"

"I led you to the basement. Someone probably came to lock the room, and we could've prevented this if we'd never gone down there."

"With that logic, I could've just told you I don't like playing with picks."

"So let's agree it's neither of our fault."

"Agreed."

"Do you play the piano as well?" I ask, just to hear music, or a sound, or something other than the drumming of raindrops on the window. I usually adore the sound of raindrops on my window, especially when it's dark and I'm going to sleep, but it's a little eerie to think we're the only ones in this building. I'm not freaking out, but I don't feel safe, either.

"No, do you?"

"I can carry a tune or two," I answer, snickering as I lift the fallboard. "You're not allowed to laugh, though. I'd really appreciate if you didn't."

"Of course," he agrees, clearly eager to hear me play. Now, when I was little, I took piano lessons from the ages of five to twelve. I'm not horrible. I'm not great, either. There is only one song that I am confident in playing.

"I'll play if you sing."

He scrunches up his nose, not looking too eager. "Can't we both sing?"

"Deal."

He's clearly surprised by my compliance, but I start playing, and you know what? It actually feels good to play. I haven't played for so long, and I was so young when I started, it feels kind of natural. I haven't played in years. It's my mom's favorite song, and out of guilt for not loving the piano as much as she did, or perhaps out of my longing to live with dad, I don't know, I've grown to love the song. I could listen to it over and over again, and not tire at all.

I start to sing. Edward joins me and I'm so surprised by the fact that he actually knows this song that I stop playing.

"Silver Thunderbird. It's my s—it's a fantastic song." He stares at my hands. "You're amazing with the piano, Bella. Why didn't you tell me? I feel awkward even thinking about my pathetic attempts with the guitar."

"Thanks," I say, smiling. "You're really nice to me. And your attempts weren't pathetic, Edward. Not at all. How long have you played the guitar?"

"Only a few years." He rubs his neck. "You?"

"Seven years."

"Huh." He sort of huffs and chuckles at the same time. "Wow."

"I literally haven't played for five years."

"Why not? You're really amazing with the piano, Bella, and I'm not kidding or being just polite or anything."

"That's just one song. I suck at the others."

"Just to stop the argument, I'll agree. How about we finish the song?"

I re-start playing, and we sing together. I'm being silly, because I'm not a great singer or anything, but you know what? Yes, I admit Edward's guitar-playing, although decent, is not extraordinary, but his singing? If he made a song devoted to toilet paper, I would totally curl up behind the bathroom door and listen to that voice. It's nice of him to think that I can play (admittedly, he's only heard me play this one song), but he could eat MTV Awards with that voice. At one point, he doesn't realize I stop singing, and it's just him and my piano playing, and at that little moment, I am happy that we're stuck here. He's phenomenal. He really is. I am awed.

I think I'm in love.

Hehe, not really.

I stop, and we just sit there for one tiny moment, listening to the echo of the last chord.

I gently smack him at the back of his head. "Speak for yourself." He stares at me in wonder and starts rubbing the back of his head. I didn't hurt him, God no, but he's just so distracted.

"I'm amazing, huh? Edward? You could shit Grammies with that voice."

"What?"

"I said you could shit Grammies with that voice. Just take a dump and pop out a Grammy."

"Sure," he says, not convinced. I just want to shake him.

"Honestly, I've heard Peter Gallaghe sing, and he got into Julliard. He didn't go because he didn't have the money and his granny got sick, but seriously. You're like a child prodigy. Have you been to competitions or anything?"

I can tell that my reaction threw him out of the loop, and he's so taken aback, he doesn't even know how to react.

"Edward? I'm telling you. You're amazing."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I will personally make sure you get discovered when you've realized your potential."

"You think so?" he repeats, eyes still not focusing on anything.

"Seriously, are you begging for praise? Or are you really that clueless? You've never been to any song competitions or anything?"

"I went to a few when I was in elementary school."

"And?"

"Didn't win a single one of them. I was a bit of an underdog, really."

"Have you considered pursuing music?"

For the first time, I can see fire and enthusiasm and energy beneath his confusion and nerves. "I would like nothing more."

"Then it's settled."

"What is settled?"

"We'll get you to go to a few bars and stuff so you could sing live."

"Oh, hell no," he backs off. "Not in a million years. I'm not good with crowds. I hate speaking in public."

"We'll get you into the debate team. You get to face your fears."

He looks horrified. "Um, no. No."

"But you're brilliant, Edward. You'd definitely have the looks, and the talent, so it's not like anyone's stopping you."

We stare at each other, and I can tell he's getting uncomfortable. I suddenly realize what I sound like—like I'm coming on to him, and suddenly I am equally as horrified as he was when he heard my suggestion about being in the debate team.

"Uh, sorry," I back off, raising my hands as if in surrender. "I didn't mean to sound like—I'm not—I'm not coming on to you or anything, I swear."

"That's too bad," he jokes.

"Yeah, otherwise we could be having wild sex right now."

He sort of freezes before letting out a snorty laugh. "Bella you really are something else. That's a compliment."

"Thank you." I stand and curtsy. My stomach grumbles. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"That's great, because we have a three-course meal waiting for us."

"Fantastic."

We sit in the middle of the stage and share the content of our respective lunch boxes. I get the half of his half-sandwich, and he gets half of my candies and half of my chocolate. We switch drinks. I don't mind. It's a good meal.

"Thanks, Bella. For being so—you know—welcoming. You're a cool girl. I'm glad it was you I got stuck in here with."

"Thanks. Likewise."

"I'm a cool girl?"

"Yes."

We laugh. I chew and swallow and gulp down water, and I suddenly feel like sharing something. Because in all seriousness, I've grown to trust Edward, and he asked, but I didn't answer.

"I haven't seen my mother in five years."

"Why not?"

"I guess, I don't know. I don't hate her, but my parents' break-up wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. She hasn't come to visit us and we've never gone down to visit her and it was kind of hard for the first few years, but I got used to it. Now I wish she were here. Kind of pathetic, isn't it?"

"Bella, you're a teenage girl. It wouldn't make any sense for you to not miss her. Is she happy where she is?"

"I really hope so. I speak to her sometimes on the phone, but perhaps I should make a bigger effort. It just doesn't sound like she's that interested in what's going on in my life."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"Thanks. I appreciate that you think so." I offer a pursed-lips smile, because I've been so wrong about Edward in a sense. When it matters, Edward isn't awkward at all. He's actually really smooth, in a really non-cheesy way. I like it.

We throw away the thrash and sit on the somewhat comfy chairs in the front row. The rain has intensified, and we just sit, listening to the sounds.

"I have a sister," he whispers as if the knowledge were too sacred.

"Really? Jasper never mentioned. What's her name?"

"He doesn't know."

"How?"

"Neither do my parents."

"What? That—that doesn't make any sense."

"You're literally the first person to know, other than me."

I'm awed by the trust he has in me, but I can't comprehend what he's saying. "So you—you're adopted."

He hums, and I figure it's affirmative because he says nothing else for a while.

"I found out a few years ago."

"Did they tell you?"

"No, I—it was an accident. They couldn't get pregnant and… adopted me. I think I was three or four, old enough not to have explicit memories of my own parents."

Frankly, I don't know what to say. I'm a little appalled with myself, thinking that me not seeing my mom for five years was a big deal. And then there are guys like Edward, who, in their teenage years, find out their parents aren't biologically theirs. It's difficult to wrap my head around that kind of knowledge.

"How'd you find out?"

"Facebook. You know, it has face recognition, and I accidentally met with my sister in summer camp. We're in a picture together with twenty other people. She had the picture, put it up, and with that face recognition, she tagged me. She contacted me for some trivial matters and we started to talk. She knew she was adopted all along, she's flip-flopped in and out of families her whole life. Her current family is a nightmare. Can't imagine the shit she must've pulled through." His eyes focus on me. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to bother you with this knowledge."

"You're not bothering me at all. You can trust me. I'm interested in what you have to say. Sometimes it's good to just… vent."

"She had brain surgery today."

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah."

"Do you know what was wrong with her?"

"She hasn't really elaborated, but it's not cancer."

"I'm sure she'll be okay. Were you talking to one of her friends today?"

"Yeah. Trying to get information."

"Have you let your parents know you're aware of your adoption?"

"No. And I intend to keep it that way. They—they're great people, they really are. I've grown up with the knowledge they're my real parents, so they're still mom and dad for me, but—when I found out, it sort of made sense. They've always been OCD about any signs of sickness I show, and sometimes their worry, it's just… so overwhelming. And they're so desperate to see me succeed academically."

"Do you think they've noticed your absence by now?"

"I'm pretty sure they've got detectives looking for me right now."

"If my dad has a night shift, he's looking for you as well."

"And you?"

"He probably doesn't even know I'm not home, so maybe not."

"What about your brother?"

"If my dad has a night shift, Emmett is embracing the opportunity of getting himself wasted. So there's really no-one there to notice my absence."

"I'm sorry."

I swear, he always looks so earnest saying that. He's such an amazing guy. I hope once he realizes his talent, or once our school's female population hears him sing, he doesn't get too cocky. It would kill me to see his caring nature go down the drain. I wouldn't mind if he grew some confidence, but arrogant asses as friends wouldn't bode well with me. Then again, once he gets popular, he probably wouldn't even pretend to know me. The fact saddens me greatly.

"They're looking for you, though, so we might have a chance of getting out tonight."

"I wouldn't care either way," he says, smiling. "Really. Think of all the stories we get to tell our college friends. We get to spend the night at school, doing whatever we wish."

"Like sleeping?"

"Like sleeping." He chuckles. "Are you tired?"

Neither of us has any idea what time it is, I don't have a phone, Edward's is dead, and there's no clock on the wall. But it feels late. He puts his guitar case in the middle of the stage (we'll use it as a pillow) and we lie down. I'm on the one side, he's on the other, and our bodies create a horizontal line. For a moment, we enjoy the silence. It's getting chilly.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"I like you."

I tilt my head up, making sure to lock eyes with him, and battle my eyelashes for good measure. He's upside-down from my viewpoint, but our heads are next to each other. I wrap arms around my stomach.

He frowns. "Pardon?"

"I like you."

For a few amusing seconds, he keeps staring at me (upside-down), but when I can no longer keep in my laughter, he chuckles.

"Jesus. I thought you were serious for a second."

"Aw, way to kill my buzz." I laugh. "I was just seconds away from admitting my deep, unfathomable love for you."

"You're crazy."

"You know it."

"I don't even know why I spend time with you."

"It's 'cause I'm breathtakingly beautiful, admit it," I reply. "Do you think they'll let us skip school tomorrow?"

"I think your father is the likeliest candidate to get us out before it comes down to spending the night."

"You mean you don't want to sleep with me after all?" I mock-gasp. "That's preposterous!"

This time, he lets out a hearty laugh.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you cold?"

"No, not really. Are you?"

"Freezing."

"Oh." He shifts a little. "Okay. Do you want to come to my side?"

"And force you to sleep with me? Of course!"

I snicker, and so does he, but really, if I'm cold now, I'll freeze during the night. I lie down next to him at a reasonable distance and stare at the ceiling.

"I so wish the basement had blankets, or that this carpet wasn't stuck on the floor."

"I know. But you know, when people are losing body heat, and they have no blankets or anything, it's most effective to be next to another body."

"Why, are you suggesting we sleep together, Mr. Cullen?"

"That appears to be true." He raises his arm. "Oh, come on. You'll freeze to death. Come'ere. You know I won't attempt anything, I know you won't, and you're freezing your butt off."

I shift closer to him and face away from him. He wraps an arm around my waist. I smile. The action is completely innocent, nothing sexual at all, but it's still the first time for me to be in boy's arms like that. It isn't exactly his choice to be stuck in here with me, but he's a good friend, and he cares. I find his actions sweet. There's no ulterior motive neither from my part or his. Other than to get warm, I mean.

But I feel very safe in his arms.

"You smell nice."

"Bottles of cologne every morning."

"I could tell."

"That was a complete and total lie."

"I could tell."

"Behind your cool girl shield, you are such a know-it-all."

"I know."

I can feel his chuckle. "And funny, too."

"Are you trying to sweet-talk me into sleeping with you?"

"Why? Is it working?"

"You might as well tickle a potato to make it laugh."

"That bad, huh? I must be losing my mojo."

"You poor, mojoless bastard."

He hums.

"That, and the fact that a guy like you never goes for a girl like me, even if I were interested in you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, just, you know… real life and all that."

"I am _that_ lacking in social skills? Thanks, Bella. Raising my confidence one comment at a time."

"Oh, Jesus. Don't sound so hurt. I am clearly referring to my extraordinary appearance."

"You think all guys want—is a pretty girl?"

"Don't they?"

"I asked you first."

"Honestly? Yes."

"Why do you think so?"

"Edward, have you ever read a book or seen a movie with the female love interest truly lacking in appearance? And I mean, like, really ugly. Not just, oh, she has braces and she's unpopular, she must be ugly."

"Sure I have."

"Oh, really? Name some. Amuse me. And _The Beauty and the Beast_ does not count. He became all pretty and shit in the end. Any movie or book where the ugly gets to magically become pretty doesn't count."

"That's just fiction."

"I understand that. But would you like to name some of these works where the ugly girl stays ugly, and still gets the amazing, handsome man?"

"You think I'm amazing and handsome?"

"I think you're becoming really big-headed as this conversation continues."

"So you think I'm amazing and handsome."

"Now you're already arrogant. Such a turn-off, Edward. Never do that with girls. Now, I asked you a question. Would you like to name the incredible amount of fiction dedicated to girls who don't just think they're ugly, but _really_ _are_. And do _not_ get to become the swan in the end?"

"You're a swan."

"Now you're also a liar. That's not only a turn-off, it's a deal-breaker. Never do that with girls, either."

"Are you teaching me how to behave with girls, Isabella _Swan_?"

"Yes, I am. And you better take notes. If you become an arrogant prick after you decide you're too talented for us mere mortals, I will not be pleased."

"Oh, I don't think that's very likely."

"You realizing you're talented or you becoming a prick?"

"Either."

"I beg to differ."

"You don't think very highly of me, do you."

"I do think very highly of you, and that's kind of a problem, because once you realize what a social suicide I am, I'll be a mere memory and you'll probably never even acknowledge me in the corridor. That will not be fun."

"I would never do that."

"We'll see."

"Even if what you think about my talent becomes true, I'd never do that. I promise."

"You promise, huh?"

"I promise."

"Very well, then. You should know that you just gave me full permission to break your nose if you ever decide you are too high and mighty to be my friend."

"I give you my full permission, Bella."

"Huh. That's an interesting turn of events."

"Why?"

"Because I can hold you responsible for becoming a shitty friend, and while you might still ignore my attempts at trying to pick up the pieces of our friendship, I will feel better when I've given my best."

"I'm glad it will never happen."

Even though he couldn't see it, I smile. At least for now, he's down-to-earth, and doesn't immediately write me off as a social suicide. He's such a sweet guy I might re-think not being interested in him. And even if I were, nothing would ever happen for the same reasons we just discussed so thoroughly.

"Your hair smells nice."

"I bathe in strawberries two hours a day."

"Really?"

"I use the cheapest shampoo available. I don't even know what it's supposed to smell like because the label is in Spanish."

"Strawberries. You smell like strawberries."

"I really hope that is not your usual line for girls, because it becomes eerily close."

"My usual? What do you take me for?"

"So you're not even close to being a man-whore?"

"God, no."

"Good. I'd hate so patch up all the hearts you'll break in our school."

"What that a compliment or an insult?"

"I'm not quite sure myself."

After a moment of silence, his grasp tightens around me as he admits, "You're such a weird girl."

"I refuse to take it any other way than as a compliment."

"It is."

"Thank you. I apologize in advance, but I might fall asleep within thirty seconds. And you're right, I'm so much warmer this way. Give your hot bod my thanks."

He laughs, and I feel it reverberate. For the first time in my life, I drift off in boy's arms.

I wake up to an argument, not quite next to me but pretty loud nonetheless. I can't move. Slowly, I come to. I find myself looking at an unusual looking ceiling with pipes or something. Light is coming into the auditorium through the windows. I'm facing Edward's chest. My head is on the ground, just next to his heart. It beats slowly and steadily. I've never been so intimately in a man's arms, and I might never get a repeat performance. I shut my eyes.

You know, Edward is no jock, but it still feels really nice to be curled up next to him like this. He's warm and looks so innocent and I don't really mind that my back is about to kill me for the rest of the day.

But the taste in my mouth is not pleasant.

I can hear someone try to open the door, but it's locked. The argument continues. I realize I recognize these voices and we need to get up as soon as possible. But the door opens and a whole bunch of juniors—our classmates—swarm in. Seniors follow them. The grim-looking principal is in the front along with my angry dad and Edward's exhausted-looking parents. Emmett looks like he won the lottery.

They stop as they see us.

With a rapidly beating heart, I make a tremendous effort to get out from under Edward, but he almost lying on me and only tightens his grip. He's going to get shot by my dad if he continues like this.

"Edward?"

He squeezes me.

"Edward."

I shake his chest to move him. He doesn't.

"M'hmm."

"Your parents are here. As is my dad. The Chief of Police."

As if burnt, he lets go of me. I get up and rub my aching back. Edward, too, grimaces as he gets up. He grabs his guitar case, and together, we jump off the stage. The crowd of students eye us, some amused and some wary, but everyone incredibly interested in what just occurred.

Oh God. We're up for some serious gossip.

"You know, Mr. Kramer, for years I've suggested that this auditorium needs another door next to the stage. But I guess—investing in a blanket wouldn't hurt, either."

The only person looking angrier than Mr. Kramer is my dad.

"So I get to scratch off #74 from my bucket list. I really appreciate that."

"Having sex on the auditorium stage?" a voice I recognize yells from the crowd.

I laugh.

Oh, well. This week is going to be so much fun. My dad is so red he's either going to have a heart attack or kill Edward. Edward, on the other hand, has gone so pale I can almost see through him. The sheer horror on his face is unequaled as he stares at my dad.

Huh.

You'd think they're worried that we've died of hunger and thirst and drowned in our feces, but no. Let's worry about whether or not we had sex.

Jesus. Must be difficult to be a parent of a teenager.

"Mr. Cullen. Miss Swan. My office. Now!"

I make sure to bring dad with me after he's given me a one-armed hug. I don't need him to use his gun on the guy who generously offered me his warmth in the chilly night. Edward's mother, a fragile-looking and beautiful creature, holds on to Edward's face as she emphasizes how worried they've been. Luckily for Edward, this happens after we've left the auditorium, so he isn't that all that embarrassed. His father gives him a hug, a real one. With both arms.

Can you hug me like that, dad? Just once? So I would know what it feels like for someone to care about you more than your own life?

As we sit in the two chairs in the principal's office, staring at his golden name-plate, 'Principal Wallace Kramer,' our parents sit on the chairs under the window, facing Mr. Kramer's table. Edward's mom is leaning forward, holding on to Edward's wrist, and I realize I'm jealous. I've never felt jealous of anyone like that before, but now I am. I want to have a family who isn't afraid to let me know that they care so much they'd stay up all night worrying about me. I want my dad to hug me, really hug me. I want my mom to, well, care.

Is that so much to ask?

"Your parents have been worried sick over you, and you two were breaking and entering the schoolhouse. In addition, after having stolen the laptops, you two decided to spend the night in the auditorium. Explain yourselves."

"Excuse me?" Edward asks.

"What are you talking about? We haven't—we didn't—we were stuck—"

"Start explaining right now before I expel you both."


	5. Star-Crossed Lovers from District 106

"On another occasion, while poisoning himself with elevated levels of oxygen, Haldane had a fit so severe that he crushed several veterbrae. Collapsed lungs were a routine hazard. Perforated eardrums were quite common, but, as Haldane reassuringly noted in one of his essays, 'the drum generally heals up, and if a hole remains in it, although one is somewhat deaf, one can blow tobacco smoke out of the ear in question, which is a social accomplishment.' " — Bill Bryson,_ A Short History of Nearly Everything_, page 244

: :

"My daughter is not a thief."

"Neither is our son."

"Fact of the matter is, somewhere between yesterday evening and this morning, someone stole Mrs. Cope's laptop, as well as the Vice Principal's. And, comfortably enough, we find you two in the auditorium inside the schoolhouse. If you were not engaging in illegal activities, what, may I ask, were you doing?"

"We were stuck in the auditorium," Edward says.

"And how did that happen?"

"Someone must've locked us in after our Drama," I explain. "Everyone left by six thirty, but I asked Edward to stay to hear him play the guitar. I thought it would be pretty cool if he could play in our Christmas musical, _Cats_, so he stayed. He'd left his pick at home, so we went to the back room to get it, and that's the point where someone must've locked us in. We only realized it as we were trying to leave."

"Why didn't you call us?" Edward's father asks, all concern and worried eyes and tender voice. It's quite the contrast between him and my dad (who looks like he might've swallowed a poisonous frog or two). You can see a vein on his temple pulsate. He'll lose his temper any moment and I can do nothing to save the situation.

"The battery was dead."

"But you just charged it yesterday morning."

"I know," Edward says, embarrassed. "But—"

"It's an iPhone. That's notorious for non-existent battery life." Edward gives me barely-noticeable smile. I nod. No offense, but nowadays grown-ups know very little about technology (if they choose to). I could tell them Linux' biggest problem was all the virus-attacks, and they'd probably believe me. That's just a fact of the 21st century.

"And you, Bella? What was wrong with your phone?"

"I left it at home."

"So neither of you had a phone."

"That is correct."

"So what did you do?"

"We called for help, nobody came. We noticed that the only window of the room is insanely high, so we couldn't climb out or anything, and then we—stayed. Played the piano, talked a little, ate the remains of our lunch, and went to sleep."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Mr. Kramer eyes us both, and luckily, Edward, too, has the courage to look him straight in the eye. I do the same. Mr. Kramer shifts in his seat.

"And the laptops?"

"I don't know, and I'm sure Bella doesn't, either. The first time we heard about this was when you told us someone had taken them. We were stuck."

"We can prove it, too." I straighten my shoulders. "Do you still have that camera in the auditorium, facing the front door?"

"Yes."

"It should cover the auditorium's door, too, right? Just look at the video and you'll see us entering with our Drama peers, someone locking the door, and us never coming out until morning."

"One moment." He walks out of the room. Edward's parents crouch and lean next to him, concerned for Edward's well-being. My dad stares daggers at the side of Edward's head.

Hey, dad, can you pretend to be a little upset by the fact that I wasn't home? And not the fact that this guy wouldn't mind being my friend?

Mr. Cullen leans on the table in front of us and asks, "So you two, nothing happened? Nothing that shouldn't have?"

Immediately, my dad is on his feet, all red-faced and loud noises. "If your son forced himself on my daughter, or knocked her up, I will personally kill him."

Dear ground, please swallow me and save me from the embarrassment that is my father, sincerely, me.

"But nothing happened," Edward's dad repeats as he raises a hand in dad's direction.

"No," we say at the same, and help me God, but it sounds incredibly guilty and rehearsed and not one of them seemed very convinced. I wouldn't believe myself, either. Can this get any worse? I guess the person stealing the laptops could've hidden them in our bags and we'd be expelled for sure.

You know, when we were stuck in the auditorium, I thought the school would issue an official apology, give us a day off and puncture a hole through the wall for the auditorium to have a second exit. Or have a spare set of keys in the basement. Or both. Call me naïve, but it didn't actually occur to me we'd be the bad guys in this situation.

Dad steps closer to Edward. "If you even touched my daughter—I will—"

I'm pretty sure Edward is about to faint. I make sure to lock eyes with all the parents in the room. "Nothing happened, I promise. And dad, if something were to happen, Edward is too much of a gentleman for the decision not to be consensual." I look at Edward's parents. "You've raised him well. But nothing actually happened. We're just friends. I'm not attracted to him and he's certainly not attracted to me."

"But the way we found you…"

"The auditorium is not heated during the night, dad. I would've gotten pneumonia if it weren't for Edward."

"You didn't sound too convinced a minute ago."

Am I really going to do this? Yes, I am. Edward deserves none of this shit.

"I can prove it. You know there's a way to prove that I've never—you know."

Please, please, I want to die. I've never wanted to crawl into a hole and die more than at this moment.

"That won't be necessary," Edward's father says, concerned but relieved. Mrs. Cullen offers a gentle smile and squeezes my hand. And dad? He just looks incredibly uncomfortable. Edward stares at me, but I avoid his eyes. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence—or staring at me—Mr. Kramer steps back into the room.

"I apologize for jumping to conclusions. Because the cleaning lady was sick, our IT guy was asked to check and lock the auditorium. He did look in, but he couldn't see you, and he locked the door an hour before the usual time. I do apologize. We'll issue an official apology as well."

"Did you get to sleep at all?" Edward's mom asks.

My eyes sting, but only a little. I suspect it was in the wee hours of the morning that we fell sleep.

"A little," Edward replies.

"Do you need anything?"

I munch a few times. "A toothbrush."

Even my own dad twists a smile. It's not a whole lot, but it's something. We get up.

"They'll take the day off," Edward's dad says.

"Of course, Mr. Cullen. And Miss Swan as well. They must've been scared."

Edward and I lock eyes and our mouths lift into a secret smile. I feel like we're partners in crime, in a really good way. I wouldn't trade tonight for all the gold in the world.

"So were you guys scared?" my dad asks as we climb downstairs together. The bell rings, and as the students start to swarm out of the classrooms—running and screaming and enjoying their brief moment of freedom—most eyes fall on us as we pass. They wouldn't dare comment, yet I'm sure our adventures will be gossiped about. Oh, well. They'll find something newer and more exciting tomorrow.

"Not really. We kept each other company and laughed most of the night. I gave Edward candies, he gave me half an apple."

Dad throws a hand on my shoulder after I put on my jacket. He takes my bag.

Honestly, I don't really care for missing school that much, I just want to have a shower. I'm sure Edward feels the same.

"I'm proud of you, kiddo. Glad you're okay," dad says. "I think I should apologize to Mr. and Mrs. Cullen."

"Thanks, dad. I think that's a good idea."

"I don't think they like me very much."

Oh, really, dad. You only threatened to murder their son, what makes you think so? Surely they live to hear death threats.

"I'm glad you care, dad, don't get me wrong, but you need to learn to place trust in me."

"It's him I don't trust."

"But you should trust my judgment, and I can tell you, Edward's a really nice guy."

"I'm starting to see that."

"So it's okay with you that he's my friend?"

"Of course."

Uh-oh. Half an hour ago you were talking about murdering him.

It has finally stopped raining, but the parking lot is covered in puddles. "I'll go thank them and then you go and apologize, okay?"

"Sure. I want to speak to that friend of yours anyway."

"Are you sure you're safe to go?"

He raised his arms so that Mr. and Mrs. Cullen could see (and hear) that as well. "I'll be on my best behavior."

I walk over to them as dad and Edward step away from us.

"I'm Bella."

Edward's dad shakes my hand.

"I'm really glad Edward's in our Drama class, he's an amazing guy. Very talented. You must be pretty proud of him."

"We are." They smile such a sincere, gorgeous smile that they could easily pass as his biological parents.

"And I—I'm really sorry about the way my dad behaved. Sometimes, he just lets him temper get the best of him. He has good intentions, I swear, so please don't—"

"We know, Bella. If I had a daughter, I would be just as protective as he is."

"And, uh, please know that nothing happened between me and Edward, so—not that you would, but—please don't punish him for something he didn't do. He was nothing but a gentleman. And it wasn't his fault."

"We know, Bella."

"But if you need to blame someone, it should probably be—me. I suggested that we go downstairs to look for that pick. If we hadn't gone down there, the IT guy would've noticed that we were in there and not locked us up. So I'm really sorry about that. But your son is really cool and I'd appreciate it if I could still be his friend."

I've put all my apologies out there, so now that I've introduced myself to both, I wring my arms together and smile.

"So, er—thanks for raising him to be a gentleman."

"That means a lot, Bella."

It is official. I've groveled when it wasn't needed, I asked permission to be Edward's friend, and I admitted it was my fault. Next move? Moving to Mexico.

I turn to leave, but Edward's dad calls after me.

"Bella? You're welcome to have dinner at our place anytime. We don't blame you at all. Please call me Carlisle."

"And I'm—Esme. You seem like such an honest, sweet girl, you can stop by anytime." She moves to hug me, really hug me, and it's so caring and wonderful I just want to stay there forever. I miss mom.

"Er, thanks. Edward's really lucky to have you."

"We're lucky to have him."

I smile. Honest to God, if my parents had _chosen_ me, would they treat me this way as well? Not that I'm complaining—I love my parents with all their faults—but it's just, you know, something to think about.

Dad comes to offer his apologies. I join Edward, who is (much to my surprise) leaning on dad's police cruiser and grinning.

"What are you all smiles about? Did my dad tell you he won't murder you?"

"Something like that."

"You're leaving something out."

"Let us have our secrets."

"Well, either way, I'm glad your life is no longer in danger."

The tips of his ears redden as he looks down at me. He's actually pretty lean and somewhat wiry because of his height, but next to my super-gangly (über-muscled, oh yes) self, he's pretty muscled. I'm pretty tall for a girl. My mom's 5'4'' so I thought I didn't stand a chance, but it turns out her mother, my grandmother, was, like, six feet, so that why I was 5'4'' by the age of thirteen. And then I grew. And grew. When I reached 5'8'' I started to get nervous. I did not need to add super-tall to my obvious list of positive traits. Lucky for me, I stopped growing at 5'9'' which isn't that bad at all. I could still find guys taller than me, and Edward is much, much taller.

Edward pulls me into a real hug, too. I felt a pang of envy at the ease with which his family shares their feelings, and a few moments later, everyone is hugging me. I should wish for an amazing, handsome, wonderful guy to want me, and maybe Edward's twin pops out from somewhere.

Oh, stop it. You know what I mean. I know you do.

No, actually, if I could have one wish—just one—that came true, I would wish to (deserve to) get into SUNY, Purchase College in Purchase, NY. That would be pretty cool.

"What was that for?"

He shrugs. "You know, for being such a beautiful girl."

I burst out laughing. Our parents look at us with amusement.

"Finally—finally, I get you to joke about it as well. High five!"

He high-fives me, a half-smile on his lips. "You know, your dad told me I was a pretty decent guy and I am to look out for you when your brother's not there."

"Look out for me—how?" I ask before grinning. "Ah, you mean suitors! Those hundreds of thousands of guys who think I'm amazing and incredibly gorgeous!"

"Um, yes."

"Fabulous. I do need protection from all the potential love interests in my life. There are so many sometimes it's difficult to pick just one. And that's where you come in. That is such a tough job you have. So what do you get out of it?"

"Spending time with a beautiful girl?"

"Ah, shit, you're outta luck. I hear this girl does not only look like a giraffe, she also only spends time with friends who are _not_ obliged to watch out for her."

"What if he wants to?"

"So he's the social suicide type of guy."

"Nope, she's just got this distorted world view and an incredibly low self-esteem," he says, with that earnestness so characteristic of him, and then suddenly, the bashful expression from earlier is back. "Actually, I just wanted to, um, thank you for offering to, you know, prove that we didn't— your dad would've killed me."

I face-palm. Yes, I face-palm, because if there is a situation specifically defined by a face-palm, I am sure this is it.

"You're welcome, but please, let's never mention this again, okay?"

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, Bella. It's only natu—"

"Please stop talking." I guess I never comprehended that he's a doctor's son, so speaking about such matters is probably no big deal for him. "Let's never mention this incident again, okay?"

Edward nods and motions for me to go over to our parents.

"So, you're coming with our car."

"Why?"

"Your dad's going to work, and we'll drop you off."

We walk over to dad and the Cullens. "Didn't you just have a night-shift, dad?"

"No."

"But how come you didn't find us earlier if you were home tonight? Did you really not notice that I didn't arrive home from school?"

He shifts from one foot to the other and excuses us. He looks incredibly uncomfortable.

"Uh, no. I wasn't home. Emmett called me in the middle of the night. I know I should've been home, and I'm really sorry for not finding out about you sooner. I worried myself sick thinking what could've happened to you."

"Don't worry, dad. But where were you?"

"That's—something we should talk about tonight."

Huh.

"Is that okay?"

"Sure, dad."

And in my newfound boldness concerning human proximity, I pull dad into a real hug, the one with two arms, and he surprises me by not immediately pulling away. And then I do something else I've never done. I kiss his cheek. He's taken aback by my sudden burst of feelings, but he recovers quickly.

"Don't worry about me, dad. You go and kick some butt at work."

"I will. You go and get some rest. Rent a movie and order take-out if you want to. I'll see you tonight."

He waves at us before pulling away in his cruiser. We get into the Cullens' SUV, and I sigh. I'm really tired.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, I think so. My dad is just being weird."

Yeah, I think my dad is having an affair—that's probably not a correct answer, is it?

The house echoes when I place my back bag on the corridor floor. I've always had a love-hate relationship with being home on a school day. It's just that, on the one hand, it feels forbidden and exciting and—I can do whatever in the world I want—on the other hand, I'm quite a conscientious student, so I usually end up feeling guilty and studying from home. But the difference is, when I'm home, I can do it under the kitchen table or in my closet… which I sometimes do, I admit.

Hey, you gotta have a change of scenery every now and then.

I make myself two sandwiches even before taking a shower, because dear God, am I hungry. It's like I haven't eaten in days.

It is almost a religious experience, taking off my clothes to have a shower. But before I have a shower, I take a moment to observe myself in the mirror—naked—as I brush my teeth.

Emmett, if I'm ever dumb enough to forget to burn this diary, and manage to lose it before it ends up in your hands, and you're thinking I'm spilling my secrets and shit, these next few sections are the ones you'll want to skip. I promise.

So I stand there, brushing my teeth, and turn in front of the mirror. I'm tall. I'm lanky. And not in that petite, beautiful way. I have no calves to speak of. I have no _muscles_ to speak of. My breasts are those of a thirteen year old, an A cup. No, actually, nowadays, most thirteen year olds are more developed in that department than I am. On a more positive note, I seem to have small hips, so I don't look entirely manly, and my shoulders aren't that wide, either. I have—barely—noticeable waistline, but it's there. I've never noticed before.

Now, I'll write something I've never told anyone. I'll probably regret it later, but I've never put it out there, so maybe it's time I did. Even if it's just my diary that hopefully no-one but me is going to read.

I'm a late developer. It's not my opinion. It's a fact. Yes, during my teenage years, I grew taller and taller, until I didn't when I was sixteen. But I had never had my period by the time I was fifteen. By the time I was sixteen, it still hadn't started. Do you know how awkward it is to talk about such things with your dad? One that is a natural introvert—much like I am, but pretend not to be. Back then, I would've never been able to walk up to him and say anything remotely close to my extreme worry for my lack of need for feminine products. And my mom was far. Speaking to Emmett was out of the question.

I googled every possible cause for my lack of period, read more about it than humanly possible, and got information about so many possible negative causes for my problem I decided I needed to see a specialist. Do you know how much it costs to see a specialist? Most of my savings. No way in hell was I going to dad for that money.

I saw that specialist. He was very professional and clinical and told me nothing seemed to be out of order, I was just a late bloomer. But I was to see him again if my period hadn't started by the age of seventeen. That was a year ago. You have no idea how relieved I was two months later when I had my first period. I know, most girls are nervous and freaked out by that, I was happy. Sure, it's not your favorite part of the month, but it's significant in order to have kids one day. I'm glad I still have a chance.

That is, you know, after I find my blind prince on a white horse who adores me and shit.

Emmett, if you're flipping through the sections to see when it's okay to continue reading, this is your sign. Not that it's okay for you to _ever_ read my diary, but if you're already holding it, I'm pretty sure you'll read it behind my back regardless of my wishes.

Whatever. I'll make sure to talk about some awkward girly stuff in the future, just to bore the shit out of you.

Anyway. As I finished brushing my teeth and looking for ways to hate my body, I decided something. Sure, I can't change some things about my body, like whether or not I will finally develop hips and breasts to stop looking like a twelve year old boy, but there are some things I can change. Like I could start jogging to have muscles. Do push-ups. I could try to gain weight. If you think every gangly gawky wiry-looking girl is in seventh heaven to look like a boy, think again. I haven't weighed myself since, like… actually, I've never weighed myself. I should probably start with buying myself a scale, huh? And no matter what it shows, I'll need to add to it. I'm pretty sure I'm underweight. I want to have a BMI of 20, if not more.

Happy to have made a life-changing decision—hahaha—I finally have a shower. And I'm pretty happy, you know? It feels good to be motivated. I decide that first thing the next morning, and every morning after that, I will go for a jog, no matter how tired or sleep-deprived I'll become. I will try to eat more protein, more carbs, more everything. Healthy foods. Regularly.

In the evening, I make a list of things I can change about my body, and things I do like about myself. There aren't that many, mind you, but I want something to motivate me and if pretending to be pretty and confident manages to motivate me, why not?

I'm a gorgeous bad-ass girl.

Hahahaha.

Okay, let's work up to that.

: :

_Wednesday, the 1__st__ of December  
6.05 AM, listening to Meredith Brooks' I'm a Bitch from my MP3-player; it feels empowering, you know?_

I wake up with my diary plastered all over my face. Apparently, I fell asleep right after having written my badass passages, and that was at six or seven PM. It's 4.36 AM when I wake up (I have five unanswered calls from five different people, two of them from strange numbers—how in the world did I sleep so deeply not to have heard that?), and I can't remember waking up this early. Not without an alarm clock, anyway. It is, of course, dark outside. And raining. I didn't have a conversation with dad yesterday, but he's probably here, because someone has pulled the cover of my bed over me. But it could've been Emmett, too, because considering the things I've discovered about him lately, he cares, too. I'm happy he does.

I'm glad you care, Emmett—happy now? Now, why are you still reading my diary?

Just like I'd promised myself, I find some old ragged-looking sports trousers and a jacket. I take my MP-3 player as well, and silently head downstairs. I must be insane. It's probably crazy cold as well as wet outside, but whatever. I promised I'd do it, and I will.

I start off jogging snail-speed, trying not to freeze my ass off. And you know what? It's not that bad. Maybe it's because I'm determined to start off slow, very slow, and I see the artistic side of what I'm doing. I mean, I'm pretty sure all my classmates are still asleep. I'm pretty sure anyone I know is still asleep. And so I jog. I only run on the streets that are lit because I might be crazy but I'm not suicidal. If dad found out about this, he'd go nuts.

Oh, well. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

I stop to walk because even with snail speed it's obvious I'm out of shape, but I still keep going. I figured I'd jog for half an hour and walk for an hour, but since I'm unable to jog for a half an hour in a row, I end up jogging—walking—jogging for the entire time. And just when I'm about to turn around because I've been going 45 minutes away from my house, I knock straight into someone.

Now, if my life were a love story, it would be some hunk my age who'd find my craziness adorable or some shit. And we'd start jogging together every morning and he'd fall in love with me—even though I'm ugly—and I'd have too low self-esteem to ever think he likes me and he'd tell me he loves me and I'd say it back and we'd get married and have gorgeous babies.

But, it is not.

It's my gym teacher.

Yes, my class' gym teacher is a guy. Our school has one female gym teacher and two guys, so my class ended up with him. It's a guy who's seen my lack of skill in the muscle-field more than anything else, so to say that he is surprised to see me is a gross understatement. And the moment we both recognize each other, I know as well as he does that if he were to make a comment undermining what I'm doing, I would never attempt to jog again. But since he's a reasonable guy, he only nods.

"I'm impressed, Miss Swan. Keep up the good work."

And he's gone.

My respect for him grows a hundredfold, not because he was impressed by the fact that a girl as far from sports as I am would make an attempt in athleticism, but because he understood how important for me it was not to hear some snarky comment.

I guess not everyone I know is still asleep.

: :

_Wednesday, the 1__st__ of December  
9.24 PM, listening to Woman by Maroon 5_

Remember how I thought the students would find another subject for gossip? Yeah, about that.

I'm awake by the time dad and Emmett wake up. Our usual morning routine consists of a morning program to hear the weather forecast and just, you know, wake up. I make three omelets (I don't always make breakfast, but when I do, I bug Emmett about the dishes) and sit on the couch to eat one of them. I watch the morning news. It isn't until I see a photograph of myself—as well as of Edward—and an in-depth story about what had happened that I start to doubt my conviction that they'd just let it go.

They show our one oh six, the door and how high the windows were. A reporter speaks in front of our school—was that filmed yesterday?—and interviews Mr. Kramer. The reporter says they weren't able to get a comment from either of the families and didn't have any information as to whether or not Mr. Swan or Mr. and Mrs. Cullen were going to sue the school or the IT guy or the Drama teacher.

Over my dead body.

Why don't we just blame the guy who built the school?

Just on cue, the reporter goes off to talk about the man who built the old schoolhouse in the 1930s and how the schoolhouse had questionable fire escape routes. The story ends by saying that both of the students are—to the best of their knowledge—a little shaken by the experience but alright and had taken the day off.

"So how was it?"

Emmett plops down next to me, eating my omelet and looking smug. That bastard.

"How was what?"

"You know. _It_."

"Shit, Emmett. Not you too. Edward and I did not have sex."

"Not me, too? They asked if you two had sex?"

"We didn't. Let's leave it at that."

"Such a waste of a perfect opportunity."

"I will pretend not to have heard that."

He pauses. "You know, you were pretty beat when I came home."

Oh, shit—I slept with my diary on my face. Did he read it? Like, _really_ read it? I observe his face and don't see any signs of secrecy or anything. Thank God.

"Thanks for putting the cover on me."

"No probs."

"So where's dad?"

"Should be down at half to eight," he says. "You know, I've been meaning to ask you—have you noticed something, like, strange about dad lately?"

You mean other than the fact that he's either in a relationship or just sleeping with someone?

"Strange?"

"Um, I mean… Is he—? Forget it."

"Is he seeing someone? If that's what you were going to ask, I think the answer is yes."

"So you've noticed?"

"He wasn't home yesterday night. He told me so himself. I think it's pretty obvious."

"Do you mind?"

"Not really. Divorce with mom really affected him, so I guess—if he's happy, I'm happy. It's none of my business. Do you mind?"

"I'm just confused—why would he not just introduce us to the woman and get it over with? We'd just tell her how nice it is to meet her and get on with our lives. Why all the secrecy? I don't understand."

"I think I do."

"Why?"

"It kind of obvious, isn't it? He can't convince us not to be sexually active if he's not even home to notice whether or not his daughter made it home."

"_I_ noticed."

"In the morning, Emmett."

"I noticed, like, at ten in the evening."

"Why didn't you do something straight away? What if I'd been, I dunno, abducted or something?"

"I was trying to—cover for you."

"Why?"

"I thought, maybe, you were at a party or something. And I do remember how many times you've covered for me, so I was trying to, I dunno, extend the same courtesy."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but that's kind of sweet. Thank you. Even though I only go to parties, well, twice a year."

"You're welcome," he replies. "The moment I realized you'd never come home after three AM, I called dad. He went nuts. He wanted to know why I hadn't contacted him sooner and what if something happened and what if this and what if that and yada-yada."

"I'm sorry. So then what? He came home?"

"He came home, called the office and asked if there had been any reports of an—abused girl or something. He found out that Edward was missing as well, and you should've seen his face. It went from white to purple in nanoseconds."

"Sounds like him, yeah."

Absentmindedly, we finish our plates, switch off the TV and make sandwiches for lunch. That's what you do when your mom is in another state. You take care of this yourself.

"I should warn you, the others at school—you're up for some serious gossip."

"I figured."

"Most of them think you definitely did it."

"The joys of a teenager, I guess. Everything circles around that."

"Just tell them I'll kick their ass if they mess with you."

"Thanks." I laugh. "I will."

That morning, Emmett does something he's never done before. I've told you how he's kind of a jock, right? If there is a popular crowd in our school, he's in it. And this morning, he walks through the corridors with his arm on my shoulder. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel protected and cared for, because I'd always felt like this awkward little sister who's on the way of his popular jock life. But it turns out he's either so cool he can afford to show he cares about his ugly little sister, or he just doesn't give a shit. Or maybe it's a combination of both.

He walks me to my locker. Turns out he's sincerely worried that someone would do something to me, and while I think he's being incredibly sweet, I also think he's exaggerating. But it's still sweet, you know? Not that he's ever ignored me at school, per se, but we've never really hung around a lot at, either. And he went so far as to walk me to my class.

And honestly, I don't care if I sound like a wuss, Emmett is an awesome brother. He really is.

Up until now, I haven't given a shit about my social status for so long it's difficult to be faced with the fact that while I might not care, some of my classmates clearly do. In the corridors, some people greet Emmett and wave at me, but I'm not left with the impression they're discussing me. Now, I understand I just wasn't paying attention. As I step in the classroom, I get everyone's attention and then some.

I hate to admit, but Emmett was not exaggerating.

"Will you please close the door after you, Miss Swan?"

I do as I'm told, walk to the back of the room and sit down next to Edward. I make sure to beam at everyone I pass, just to let them know no matter what they say, I refuse to be affected by anything as trivial as high school gossip.

Edward appears to be quite tired, still, and it worries me. Does he have any news about his sister? Bad news? Ah, shit. I open my mouth to ask, but he beats me to it.

"Hey, listen—I'm sorry about what they're saying. I had no idea it would be this bad. The guys, they're actually giving me high fives and, uh, I'm just sorry. I've been trying to tell everyone nothing happened but nobody seems to believe me. I'm sorry."

"Frankly, I don't give a shit. They can think and talk whatever the hell they want."

Caught off guard, he leans closer. "It's just, I've heard rumors like this are worse for the girls in high school, like, they get labeled very easily."

"I'm serious, _my new fake lover_, I'm determined not to give a shit."

He chuckles. "I'm glad. You're too smart for that shit anyway. Alright then."

"Hey, Edward, I meant to ask you—how's your sister?"

"Rosalie."

"What?"

"Her name is Rosalie."

"Um, yes, Rosalie. How is she?"

"Better." He smiles, just slightly. "Still drugged and unconscious, but her friend told me she should be okay."

"That's wonderful."

"Hey, star-crossed-lovers from district one oh six, may I have the honor of having your undivided attention?" our history teacher says. "I would very much appreciate it if you discussed your _urgent_ _matters_ after my class."

Thirty pairs of eyes land on us, and just to goof off to show how much I care, I place a hand on my heart and battle my eyelashes at Edward. And—oh my God, he's awesome—he does exactly the same. Edward, battling his eyelashes? Makes the class laugh, and honestly, I'm not sure I've ever been so relieved.

But the fiasco that is star-crossed lovers from district one oh six continues thirty minutes later when our very own Peter Gallaghe peeks in the classroom and asks to speak to both of us.

Ah, you should've seen John Newton's face, he was not pleased at all.

Edward and I exit the room. Peter Gallaghe is leaning on the window sill. He's wearing a dirt-colored vest with a yellow short-sleeved collar shirt underneath.

"You're back!" I smile. "And, you have a badass lip piercing. That is awesome. Can I touch it?"

He chuckles, nodding, and I touch his lip piercing.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

"Very cool."

He holds his hand out to Edward, smiling. "So, you're the guy who took care of Bella in one oh six? Edward Cullen? I'm Peter Gallaghe."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Oh, haven't you heard? He's my new fake lover. So, why are you tearing us from the pleasant company of Mr. John Newton?"

"Actually, I wanted to ask you something—are your parents going to sue the school?"

"What? No, of course not."

"Not that I know of," Edward says. "I don't think they would."

"Mr. Kramer went nuts after I arrived and he wanted me to take the blow if they're going to do that."

"What—blame it on you?"

"Yeah. I was supposed to be there, you know. I'm usually the last one to leave. But I was still in Cleveland, and I saw the news yesterday evening. If they're going to keep someone responsible, it might end up being me, and I'm in no financial situation to get sued."

"That's preposterous. In any way, shape or form was it your fault. No-one's going to sue you."

"Thanks. I guess I can tell Mr. Kramer the good news." He touches his eyebrow piercing. "So, what've you been up to since I've been gone?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Having sex in the auditorium and being the new number one slut at school. Haven't you heard? I'm the bitch now."

Edward gapes. Peter bursts out laughing. "Only you, Bella. So, was it any good?"

"Insanely hot. Edward's the man." I mess up Edward's hair. He looks like the wind has been knocked out of him.

"I'm glad. Keep an eye out for her, will you, Edward?"

"Two eyes, actually." Edward sounds so earnest and sincere Peter and I end up laughing again.

"You're gonna fit right in," Peter says, smiling.

"Peter, I think it would be awesome if Edward played the guitar in _Cats_. Maybe a few songs. And he's got an amazing voice, you'd fall off your chair if you heard him. He's even better than you."

"Oh, really?"

"Deathly serious."

"Can't wait to hear you, Edward."

"I, uh, I'll do it if Bella plays the piano."

"You play the piano? Since when?"

"She's been at it for seven years."


	6. Waggle, Tail, Waggle

"In France, a chemist named Pilatre de Rozier tested the flammability of hydrogen by gulping a mouthful and blowing across an open flame, proving at a stroke that hydrogen is indeed explosively combustible and that eyebrows are not necessarily a permanent feature of one's face." ― Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_

: :

"So, two years of Drama with me and not once did you care to mention you could've easily played any of those times we needed someone on the piano."

"It never really came up, you know?"

"Huh. I guess you can play tomorrow."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Nope. None whatsoever. Let's speak later, though. Go back in before John gets all worked up."

Quietly, we return to our seats.

"Why'd you have to tell him I played the piano?" I whisper. "He'll never let it go now."

"You never mentioned it was this big secret of yours."

"It isn't."

"Then why is it a big deal?"

"It's—"

Why _is_ it a big deal? I don't know. It's just—when I was little, it was such a burden to learn the piano. I hated it. I hated it with passion. Or, more specifically, I hated what my teacher implied. For seven years, I had to play five days a week, an hour and a half in a row. I tried my best, I really did. I practiced a lot and did everything to please my teacher. But she never really liked me. She always emphasized you couldn't learn to play well with mere diligence (which she admitted I had), but you had to have talent (which she thought I lacked entirely). Do you know how much it hurts for a little girl to hear that you can't become the best no matter how hard you work? That you _have_ to have talent?

It hurt a lot. Especially to hear it for so many years.

I wasn't a cute little girl. I wasn't particularly clever or beautiful. The only thing I had going for me was humor. I made my friends laugh. I did it a lot.

And I really wanted to be good at something. Because everyone does, you know? So I wanted to be a fantastic piano player. But you can only have your dreams squished so many times before you start to believe it can't be done without talent.

I would've probably never become a piano player, but the emotion is still there. I'm not fond of playing the piano.

You know, I do not believe in all of that "she was _born_ to do it" and "is a complete _natural_ at that"—if you have interest (or your parents chose something for you) at an early enough age, you have a bigger chance of being successful in it. It's as simple as that. Like, for example, if my mother had wanted to make me a brilliant ballet dancer, and put me under the wing of a genius at the age of two—and I succeeded and became a fabulous dancer—I'm pretty sure everyone would've gushed on and on about how I was _born_ to dance.

That's bullshit. It all comes down to interest and spending enough time doing it so you can make your mistakes privately and show the _talent_ publicly. After all, practice makes perfect. Or that's what I thought before one teacher convinced me I lacked talent and you can't make it without it.

Diligence makes practice, but you're scum without talent. That's what my piano teacher would've said.

Oh, well.

But it's not like a big childhood trauma or anything. I didn't even give it much thought after mom moved away. I just stopped playing. After I hadn't played for several years, I didn't find interest in it anymore.

So I didn't offer Edward much of an answer.

My day, however, continued to be weird and unorthodox. I had a lot of contact—not like that, where's your mind, Emmett?—with the teachers. One break, when I pass my gym teacher in the corridor, I swear he looks at me with almost… respect. Like, really. Alright, I admit, I feel good. I like respect.

More than that, I like to _earn_ respect. And the fact that my simple jog in the morning made my gym teacher look at me differently—like, I wasn't this useless no-good whiny brat who isn't good at sports, I was _doing_ _something_ _about_ _it_—made my resolve to jog every morning even greater.

I pledge to make an effort in PE. I might not be good at much, but I will not give up easily. I won't.

I get used to the whispering and curiosity my newfound celeb—cough, slut, cough—status is offering me. Edward and I agreed to meet at the lockers before lunch, because while I don't mind facing the school alone, facing the mess together will be easier. You know.

Edward curses next to me as he discovers he left his lunch box at home, and I spill the contents of my own as I search for mine from my back bag.

Great. Just what my day needed.

But Edward, gentleman that he is, helps me pick it up.

"Here."

"You can have that. I hate those. I guess I mixed them up with Emmett's."

"You hate _chocolate_ _chip_ cookies? Are you kidding me? You're the only person since—well, ever."

"No, I'm serious. I like my cookies crisp and no-nonsense."

Edward opens the package, plops one in his mouth and moans. Like, a full eyes-closed-I-am-in-love moan.

"There are children on this flight. I repeat, children on this flight."

He nearly chokes. I pat his back in the hopes that he won't choke to death. More than a few eyes land on us. Oh, well. No different from the morning (and probably the evening).

"You can't do that when I'm eating."

"I'm sorry, but when you eat a cookie like a porn-star, you can't expect me to ignore the opportunity."

"Duly noted."

We step in the cafeteria, and when Edward sees that they offer fish today, he sits at a table with a few friends of mine at the back of the room. Apparently, he doesn't like fish much. But I love fish, and with my new promise to myself, I'm determined to eat properly. I can give my sandwiches to Edward if he wants.

What I fail to notice is Michael Newton with his two friends, Shawn and Jared, standing in line in front of me. I haven't had trouble from them for so long, it just—fails my notice. Unfortunately, it seems that with yesterday's adventures, some parts of the old world are back. Newton notices my presence and does not ignore it.

And from experience, I know I'm in trouble.

But I'm not scared of him. Not anymore. Not only do I have a bunch of friends and acquaintances in Drama and in my class, I'm also not the same person I was a few years ago. So anything he does, it won't be unnoticed. Any despiteful comment will no longer hurt me.

Okay, let me rewind. The time when Emmett beat up some guy who'd given me more trouble than anyone else? Guess who that was.

Yup. The Michael Newton himself.

And let me tell you more about the Michael Newton. He's not a cruel bully. Oh, I am an expert on bullies, trust me. There are cruel bullies, and there are peer pressure bullies. And Michael Newton, as much as he would disagree with his qualification (because he's the history teacher's little pet and he is just such a good guy and would never qualify as a bully), he's the perfect example of a peer pressure bully. You know, ask anyone what Michael Newton is like, and they will give you two so entirely different descriptions you'd think they were talking about two different people. Or that he has a personality disorder. (He doesn't. I checked.)

The difference between cruel bullies and peer pressure bullies is that while cruel bullies act alone—with no-one around to witness their success in harming a little girl or a boy—the peer pressure bullies torment only when their friends are around, because then they can show how superior they are.

Oh, trust me, superiority is an important part of bullying. It's never only about whether or not the weak one has anything different about them that would justify—in their eyes—the torment, it's about the strong/funny/superior bully noticing it.

Attention. That's what it comes down to. Good or bad, they want attention. I'll come back to this topic because I have too much to say. Honestly, if my acting career fails, I'll create a support group for the bullied and teach them how to (b)eat your way through it. This shit has got to stop.

Actually, even if I have a successful career as an actress, I'll still create that support group.

Huh. Who would've thought Michael Newton gave my live meaning.

Michael Newton sneers at me. "Even a girl like you can get a pity fuck, huh."

I pale, but barely.

Two years ago, I would've dropped my platter and ran, or said something I would've deemed witty that failed to either hurt or shock them. I would've failed in offense as well as defense. But I know better now. I'm not going to ignore him, oh no. I'm not going to stand with my tail failing to waggle. My tail will waggle, and I only hope Edward plays along.

If attention is what they want, attention they will get.

Raising my voice so that Edward—and everyone else—could hear on the other side of the cafeteria, I yell, "Hey Edward! How was it?"

And, God bless him, it takes a mere second for him to shout, "Best I ever had!"

My Drama peers start to either snicker or laugh because they know me well enough to know that this—Edward and I—couldn't have happened. One teacher, Mr. Banner, stands up to come over and chasten me, but my gym teacher, Mr. Black, puts a hand on his arm and shakes his head. (Not once have I used foul language, you see, so even if they think they know what we're referring to, they have nothing to hold on to.) And my classmates? They either gape or smile. Emmett beams at Edward, and so do I.

"You know, it sounds to me like Edward rather enjoyed himself."

"Fuck me," one of Newton's friends, Jared, mutters, clearly in shock as to how well I could engage an audience. Call me cocky, but if there's anything I can do well, it's Drama. Drama is all about communicating with an audience.

"You know, thanks for the offer, but I'm not fond of STDs, you know?"

One guy who was sitting next to a nearby table nearly gaggled of laughter, and so did his friends.

If I ever had my "moment" in high school, feeling like I'd done something that was well-deserved and well-received, this is it. Because as I walk through the cafeteria, I get a quick, enthusiastic applause, followed by some whooping. Emmett whistles. I turn around to bow and sit next to Edward. The applause loudens.

Mr. Banner quickly orders everyone to behave.

"So you like my cookies, huh?"

"You were talking about _cookies_?" Tanya gapes.

"Yeah, what did you think I was talking about?" Edward asks, all innocence and naiveté and battling eyelashes.

The entire table crouches in a fit of laughter, once again, drawing attention from others. But my table-mates' hyperventilating prevent them from noticing.

"You know what? Edward, if by the time we've both finished our Master's Degrees you're still single, I think we should get married."

"Sounds like a deal."

"Like, for real. If by some miracle you're still single, I'll just have to snatch you up—" and make you realize that aesthetics doesn't matter. Or buy you a tie and cover your eyes for the rest of your life so you wouldn't bear witness to it. "And if we drift apart or whatever after high school, and we don't talk for six years, I will still make that call to remind you it's time to marry."

"I'll just go and buy the rings. Gold or silver?"

"White gold. No big fancy diamonds. You?"

"No particular preference."

I think Ben is having a heart attack from all that laughing, and when he comes up for air and hears our conversation, he loses it again. I pull a leg under myself. Squeezing Edward's forearm, I make sure I have his attention.

"Thank you," I mutter, grateful beyond his comprehension. He couldn't have known how much trouble I'd had with Michael Newton in the past. "No sarcasm—thank you."

"Not worth mentioning," he replies. "You know, when we were playing corona the other day, I asked your brother and Jasper what the crowd is like in this school, and they mentioned him. Neither of them particularly likes him."

No wonder. He's a nasty, flexible piece of work. When I said there are two types of bullies—the cruel ones and the peer pressure ones—I might've made it sound like the cruel ones are worse. They're not. They're way rarer, that's true; the cruel ones are so rare they usually end up in news. But the peer pressure bullies, they're all high school is about. Peer pressure. Someone doing something to (and with) someone else to feel accepted. Acceptance, not only attention, is what drives them.

Jesus, I should write a separate book about this or something.

"So—you two, you didn't actually do it, did you?" Tanya asks.

"Do you think we'd act like this if we had?"

"Would you?"

I battle my eyelashes at Edward before my laughter get the best of me. Edward smiles.

"If Edward saw me naked he'd be up for a lifetime of therapy, and you don't see him lining up for that."

Good-natured guy that he is, Edward frowns.

"What do you mean?"

Oh, just, you know, my gorgeous gasp-worthy body would not only ruin his eyesight, but his desire to be with a woman. Ever. He'd probably turn gay.

"It would be traumatising, all right. My skills in bed are just too elaborate and complex."

Happy with the answer, Tanya chuckles. She's sincerely good-natured, you see, and she probably hasn't even thought negatively of my appearance. Not because it isn't clear to the blind that I am about as appealing as a one-legged giraffe, but because she's… sincerely amiable. Hard as it is to believe, she doesn't think badly about people. If I asked her if she thinks I look ugly, she'd probably say I'm nice and unique and interesting. And that doesn't bother me, because she's genuinely like that.

She's not _trying_ to be nice, she really is.

Now, the tables in our cafeteria are not as exclusive and specific as they are in a cliché American teen-movie. Over there, it seems like you might get shot if you accidentally sit around a wrong table. Not to say that we don't have cliques or anything in our school, but it's not so bad. The quickest one gets the table, and the friends join. It's that simple. Just like anybody else, I sit next to different people every day.

Usually, that is a mixture of Tanya, Laurent (don't know what's up with that, don't ask me), Lauren (Jessica's best friend and probably the most stylish friend I've ever had), Jessica (an extremely talkative girl who is our newspaper's editor), Tyler (a jock), and Angela and Ben—these two deserve a separate chapter entirely. And, of course, Edward, our newest addition.

See? It's not so bad. Only three of the eight…ish people I usually eat with are in my Drama class. Sometimes I sit with Emmett, too, but not too often.

Okay, so, Angela and Ben. They're best friends, you see, and ones that are clearly—I mean, really, especially when a naïve girl like me noticed—infatuated with one another. And the thing is, neither of them denies it (individually). They act like a couple. But they're both scared shitless of rejection and so, on a daily basis, I have to suppress the urge to throw them into a closet for seven minutes. Because one day, the sexual tension is going to kill me for sure.

They're entirely different, though. Ben, who I went to kindergarten with, is—for a lack of a better world—affluent. Like, oh-my-God-I-didn't-know-people-this-rich-existed kind of affluent. I think his dad owns an empire in twenty or so states. An insurance company or something. His dad is also kind of a womanizer, or so I've heard. Well, anyway, Ben used to be in the football team and he volunteers in the soup kitchen. He likes parties (I've never heard of him getting drunk, though) and is quite popular with girls, even if he only has eyes for one. He's an only child.

Angela, in return, is—much like me—raised by a single dad. A priest. She's got four younger brothers. Like, if I thought I had it bad with dad, Emmett and occasionally Jasper, I can't imagine the amount of testosterone she must be having at home. They're struggling financially and Angela hates parties more than I do.

They're kind of an odd pair, but dear God, you should feel the sexual tension. We tease them, of course, but despite how much we want to smack them in the head, their relationship is their business. And if I'm ever in a similar situation, I hope people extend the same courtesy. Not that I ever would be—hahaha—but, you know. Just in case.

Then again, I have a brother about as tactful as a rock in the sand, so maybe not.

I long to eat that fish the others are so eagerly—and some not as eagerly—eating, but I am not about to go back in line after what I did. It would ruin the moment, you know? Just let me have my fifteen minutes of awesomeness, imagined or not.

I take out my lunch box, open it, and give Edward my second sandwich. He's reluctant to take it, but I'm pretty convincing when I want to be, so he takes it.

"Are you two on a diet or something?" Angela asks, watching us share the meal. The boys start their own conversation the moment the word 'diet' is said. Like, really.

"Yes. It's called: eat as much as you can—and then some. I'm so determined to gain weight I might have to start drinking olive oil."

"And even then you'd probably get as fat as a straw," Lauren says. "When I first moved here, I thought you were an anorexic for sure, Bella. But then I saw you eat, and you eat more than I do. Do you know how careful I am with carbs? And then you stroll in and stuff more carbs into your mouth than should be legal. _So_ unfair." She pauses. "Want to have my bread?"

I accept her bread, and others give me some as well, so pretty soon all the bread is in a pile in front of me. It's kind of funny. So Edward and I watch the others eat properly while gorging ourselves with carbs. He doesn't seem to care what goes in his mouth in which amounts, and while I care, I know that exaggerating with bread will only help me reach my goal. If only I could exaggerate with bread every meal. (Unfortunately, I get sick easily if I engorge too much.)

Nope, eating often and properly is the solution for me. Well, you know, almost properly.

"Edward—you thinking of joining the football team this season?" Tyler asks. "I know the coach wants you to try out for the team."

"Just as long as I'm willing to bulk up a bit."

"I heard you were a quarterback back in Chicago," Ben continues. "It'd be pretty sweet to make Newton anxious about his position for once."

Edward is a jock? Well, shit. I can already hear the sound of the whole keeping him grounded plan going down the drain.

Okay, sorry. I'm not being fair to him. I promise to try and not be prejudiced. Even though, to a certain amount, we all are.

"Hey—then you and Bella can try to get fat together," Jessica says, and it is so unexpected that half of the table laughs. I guess it's just one of those days when everything is just funnier, no matter the context. It's really random, and I like it. I'm happy.


	7. Mr Touchy-Feely Best Friend

"August Mayer, a professor at the University of Bonn and a man of influence, insisted that the bones were merely those of a Mongolian Cossack soldier who had been wounded while fighting in Germany in 1814 and had crawled into the cave to die. Hearing this, T. H. Huxley in England drily observed how remarkable it was that the soldier, though mortally wounded, had climbed sixty feet up a cliff, divested himself of his clothing and personal effects, sealed the cave opening, and buried himself under two feet of soil." — Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_, page 435

: :

_Sunday, the 5th December  
5:56 PM, watching my new twinkling (orange!) Christmas lights and listening to Winter Song by Ronan Keating — it's beautiful. It hasn't snowed this year, and hasn't promised to do so, but I almost feel like Christmas._

This time, I really do have too much to say. And that's not a lie. Alright, I'll try to make this somewhat orderly. Four days' worth of information—and not the usual kind—to be covered with one go. My hand is going to hurt. But it'll be worth it. When I'm fifty years old and have nine cats and the chimney sweeper is the most exciting part of my life, I shall look back at my wild days with a smile.

I said 'wild'. That's totally a word to describe me. Haha.

Thursday morning, I felt—er—not-so-good when I woke up. Like I'd been squished under a caterpillar tractor and left to drown in a mud puddle. Every movement hurt like a bitch. So painful.

I guess I should start stretching after my morning jogs, huh? Lesson well learnt.

So, I've been continuing my morning jogs. Sure, they're more like a mixture of snail-style running and walking, but I've only just started. I'll improve. And the feeling of lactic acid in my muscles—I have them?!—is so completely foreign to me I'm surprised anyone at all in this planet enjoys this kind of torture. But I still get up insanely early to run in the empty, wet, dark streets. Go figure.

And it was Emmett's turn to make breakfast (sic). Uh-oh. Sure, he poured some boiling water on instant oatmeal and tossed some salt on it, but it's an effort. It counts. I've made it clear to him that while I might enjoy making dinner some days, I am neither his mother nor girlfriend that I should cook and clean and polish and vacuum and shit. He can drown in his pile of dirty clothes for all I care, he's going to do them himself.

Yeah, I'm a big bad wolf, boo-hoo. He's cool and all, but I am not his servant.

Also, I've encountered our coach, Mr. Black, three times out of the three times I've been jogging. We've developed this curt (but polite) nod toward each other before heading off to our respective directions. What I cannot understand is—for how long does he jog if I've seen him at 4.30...ish AM as well as 6.40…ish. Does he jog for three hours? Insanity. Nothing but insanity.

Anyway. I'm glad to say that people's eagerness to discuss what Edward and I did or did not do has lessened. Our little lunch act probably helped, and although more people think we're involved, less people seem to care. Sure, what imaginary sex takes from a high school girl's—er, how do I put it?—status, it's gives to a guy's. (Nothing but discriminating and unfair, if you ask me. Why should men's sexual prowess—imagined or not—be a source of admiration and women's a source of scolding? Like, pardon my language, but who gives a shit. If a woman wants to be sexually active, that's her business and hers alone. Like, really.)

And you know, Edward's reactions to any of those times I've caught him off guard have always been sharp and witty, so I'm not at all surprised that he's now pretty well known in our school. If at first he was known for the sheer fact that he was new, now it's different. He's still awkward, sure, but it's the charming kind, you know? He doesn't look or seem or act arrogant at all (so far), and that makes him…wanted? Yeah, I guess that's the word I should use.

Haha, where's your mind? No, not like that.

Or probably like that as well, but it's more like…a lot of people seek out his company, and it will take a while for me to get used to. I'm not jealous or anything (well…maybe a little), but mostly it's just strange. Very strange. The girls don't know what to make of us, so they don't flirt with him too blatantly or anything. (Not when I'm around, at least, haha.) I'm amused. I guess I should apologize to Edward or make it clear that in no way, shape or form are we together, but I'm not really bothered. I don't care much.

Oh, remember my dad's little intention to have another talk with us? He's avoiding both me and Emmett in a way never seen before. We cannot even properly step into the house before dad has to go grocery shopping (which he hates) or eat dinner with Billy or go to the vehicle inspection. It's funny. I just wish he'd show us some respect, sat down and told us he has a girlfriend. But nope. Dad excels at beating around the bush. Or, in this case, running around the forest and pretending there's no bush. Not a single one.

Okay then.

So, just like Peter told us, he wanted to hear me play. In front of everybody. Yay. I could feel the incredible excitement running through my veins.

Not.

And yes, Peter was back from his conference (did I tell you what it was for? his PhD, apparently), but I still had to "open" the Drama class because the teachers had a meeting of some sorts. I guess Mr. Kramer is trying to make everyone behave properly in this new celeb status our school is getting. The incident of me and Edward locked in the auditorium has now raised some "serious safety issues" all over Seattle, and they're all about "what ifs" these days. What if these two students got injured? What if they got sick? What if they panicked? Couldn't get help? Yada-yada.

Want to hear something amusing?

They did both of the things I thought they'd do. They put a spare key into the basement, and they're now going to officially break down a wall for the auditorium to have a second door. All because Edward and I got to spend a night in an unorthodox place. And on Wednesday, just after lunch, the IT guy—Mr. Frank Hendrikson—personally came to apologize to me and Edward. He was so stressed. For about ten minutes, he went on and on about how sorry he was before the bell saved us. I mean, we tried to convince him it wasn't a big deal, but really. He's pretty anxious.

Why's everyone so afraid that we'll sue them? Ah, right. America.

Again, I've distracted myself with useless babble. Oh, well. At least, Emmett—you're asleep by now. Now I can talk about having wild sex with Edward on the kitchen counter.

Just kidding! Hahaha. Maybe I should ask Edward. Now that I've slept with him more than once. Um, no. Not like that. But that's a longer story—a heartbreaking one—which I will get to right away. You know, for two people who are only starting to build the foundations for their friendship (that sounded way fancy) we sure do end up sleeping together a lot. But it's not what you think. It really isn't. I promise.

Huh. Where was I? Oh, yeah, Drama on Thursday. Peter, of course, only _notified_ me that he'd be late, and _mentioned_ that I start the class without him. It would be fun if he at least pretended I had a choice. Not that I mind starting the class, but a little bit of pretend-choice would be excellent. So I could pretend to think about it, and pretend that denying him is an actual thought.

I happen to like choice, you know? Make me feel like I have no choice, and I'll refuse everything.

Anyway. I asked Tanya to put down all our names—including the ones who weren't here—so that we could draw out names for Christmas gifts. Despite the lack of snow, it was already the 2nd of December, and we usually draw names out of a hat for gift exchange and hand them over on our Christmas party on the 20th of December. It's nothing fancy. We have fun and sing and act goofy all night. It's tons of silly and super fun.

When all the names were in, I gave the old (almost wizardly-looking) hat an exaggerated shake, and one by one, everyone got a name. Some groaned—usually girls who got a boy's name, because teenage boys seem to be the toughest to please—and Laurent and Irina got their own name, so they put theirs back and took another.

"Now, remember, whoever gets my name needs to dedicate it to 'the most gorgeous girl Bella'—and I will accept nothing but a pink screwdriver."

"And chocolate," Tanya added, laughing.

"Yes. And that."

I noticed Edward hadn't moved an inch from his place at the edge of the stage.

"Ahoi! Fake boyfriend of mine! Come'n'pick a slip."

Without looking up from his new iPhone, in a low voice, he said, "Patience, my love."

There was something about the way he said it, so confident and fake-charming, that everyone immediately burst into fits of giggles. I'm telling you, inside that often uncomfortable-looking man is a confident charmer waiting to come out. Like, really. He can be so smooth. Just because of that I am already jealous of the beauty he's going to snatch up. Ah, you know. He's just such a cool guy.

"You're only excused if you're writing me a love letter," I replied, walking next to him. "Just pick a slip and you can continue with my love letter and I can continue being the boss."

"Like a boss," he said, taking a slip with an exaggerated sigh.

"Bella, who'd you get?" Laurent yelled.

"You!"

"For real?"

"Not being sarcastic _at_ _all_."

"Damn."

"Why? Did you get me?"

"Already working on the dedication, baby."

"I'm glad you've seen the light and it has my pretty face on it."

Some rolled their eyes and most laughed. They're all so used to me making fun of my appearance no-one really initiates it. Well, some do, but it's all in good fun and they're just teasing.

Half an hour later, as we were repeating the lines in groups and waited for a few choir members to join us, Peter did just that. Without a word, he strolled to the hat and picked a name. He grinned and slipped it into his pocket.

"Why so mysterious?" Tanya asked, smiling.

"Let me have my fun," he replied, clapping his hands a few times. "I see Bella's been busy. That's great. Now if I could have your attention for a moment, that'd be great."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Very much so."

"What did I do?"

"You're more popular than I am. You know how much I can't stand that."

"Ah, shoot. I'll try to contain my prettiness."

"Yes, you do that."

"It will be difficult, you know, but I'd do anything for you."

He smiled. "Anything? Now that's what I like to hear. Hey, everyone, who's up to listening Bella play the piano and Edward sing, huh?"

Edward turned pale. I don't think even I am capable of turning a shade as white as he was at the moment.

"I didn't know you played the piano!"

"Just as long as I don't have to sing!"

"Just as long as I get the thinnest costume. I don't want to be baked by the end of the night!"

I motioned for Edward to join me as I walked over to Peter. "Hey, you know, can we do it later without a bunch of spectators? Edward's not very good with crowds and I'm not too eager to play, either. Is that okay?"

He leaned on the edge of the stage. "It's just, what, fourteen of us? That's barely one tenth of how many of us there will be in the audience during Christmas." He took a breath, locking eyes with the both of us. "I'd really appreciate it."

"But if I'm awful at the piano, you're not to comment, okay?"

"Deal."

"C'mon, Edward." I take his wrist in mine and give it a gentle squeeze before I sit down next to the piano and raise the fallboard. I look up to Edward, letting him know it's his call when we start, and he nods. He's still pale—but determined. I slid my hands on the keys, and start _Silver Thunderbird_. It really is the one song I feel confident in playing, and Edward sung it so well on Monday. He starts hesitantly, but when I goofily join in at the chorus (he takes this singing assignment way too seriously), he gains confidence and finishes boldly. Brilliantly. Not once does he look away from my fingers or face. I guess he was searching for my cues as well as trying not to be so freaked out. I empathize.

"Well, fuck me," Peter says after an awkward silence.

"You're kind of a teacher, you know? If that's not fraternization, I don't know what is."

He laughs, and when he starts to clap, the others join in. I stand, and do an exaggerated curtsy while Edward beams and bows. He's back to himself.

We get off the stage as soon as we can, though.

Little Irina comes up to us and taps on my black jeans. "Are you gonna be on American Idol next year? Like a duet? 'Cause I would vote for you two."

"You know, Irina, that's a very good question," Peter says, grinning. "How about you sing that as a part of our Christmas compilation?"

I see Edward modestly shaking his head, and for once, I agree with him.

"It's a song about son's love for his father, nothing to do with Christmas," I answer. "Not to mention, it's about the only thing I can play somewhat decently."

"Yeah, yeah, let's all pity the talentless Bella," Peter says as he motions for us to sit in a circle to rehearse the (musical's) songs and repeat lines. "And who cares, it's a great song." He pauses. "Alright, here's what we'll do. We'll vote for it—who thinks Bella and Edward sound awesome together and should sing during the school's Christmas party?"

Not the great majority, but the absolute majority (everyone) raised their hands. I groaned.

"Well, shit, shouldn't it be our decision? Like mine? Edward's? _Ours_?"

"Tsk, tsk, foul language in front of a teacher, what would your father say?"

"Shit, shit, shit—fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckidy fuck! Shit. Fuck." I took a breath. "Want to go to Mr. Kramer? I'm waiting."

"You're no fun at all," Peter fake-scoffed. "And you might've noticed that while I don't really care, we have some, er, younger audience here as well."

I looked at the four elementary schoolers, and flushed. Well, I, uh, really had forgotten. Jesus, I'm such a bad role model. I was just trying to tease him. Oh, well.

"I'm sure they've heard worse from Discovery channel."

He huffed a chuckle. "Probably."

See? Peter Gallaghe is actually cool. He's pretty chill about everything, and we've never had to go to the principal with any of our problems.

That evening, as we leave, Peter is extra careful with locking the door. Yes, there's another door being made, but it's in the process of measurements and red graffiti-looking signs on the wall. Nothing has been taken down yet.

In silence, Edward and I start to walk home together in the relative darkness. He's kind of pensive, looking at streetlights and kicking pebbles.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah."

"And your sister?"

"She's stable, which is about as good as it can be."

"Are you mad at me that I let Peter watch us perform together? Because if you really don't think you can sing in front of so many people, we can speak to Peter. He won't be happy, but he'll understand."

"Mad? No. Of course not. It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I guess I'm just, I don't know. Trying to figure you out."

"You make it sound like I'm this mysterious labyrinth that doesn't make any sense."

"Aren't you?" he asks, and he's sort of smiling. I'm not quite sure if he's teasing me or not.

"Unfortunately not. Nothing mysterious or glamorous or secretive about me at all, I'm afraid. Everything there is to see is out there for everyone to see. Including the gangly awkwardness and incredible talent."

"You own them, you know."

"I _own_ them? _Own_ them? Wow. Are we speaking of thraldom here?" I joked. "Should I be worried?"

"No, I mean—think about it. Everyone in Drama looks, I don't know, up to you. Like, they follow your assignments no questions asked. And did you notice you're the only one who actually talks back at Peter Gallaghe? Yes, I know that because we're talking about him, technically anyone could do that, but you're the only one who _actually_ _does_. You treat him like an equal, and not only that, but he treats you like an equal, too."

I've never thought about it that way. It's never even crossed my mind.

"Um, and you concluded all of that from just one Drama class with him?"

"Yes."

"I appreciate the thought, but I think you're reading too much into a simple banter. We're just being silly."

"It's not just that, though," he continues. "It's, like, everyone sees you differently than you think they do. I don't think you see yourself—"

"If your next word is 'clearly,' please shut up. I'm serious. I hate that sentence. With passion."

He stopped to stare at me for a moment, probably to see if I was being serious, and I was. I couldn't be more serious. All that shit about not seeing yourself clearly? Well, fuck, if he's even going to suggest I'm actually pretty and it's all in my head, I'll go and jump off a cliff.

"Alright. Listen me out, okay? I wasn't about to say anything about your appearance. I wasn't even thinking about it. Happy?"

"So happy." I managed a grin, but I didn't feel the emotion. "Elated!"

"Fuck, Bella, that's exactly what I'm talking about!" he burst out, and I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I've never seen him so agitated, and about what? My perception of myself? Who gives a flying fuck how I see myself? Nobody.

"You always do that! You don't think you're pretty, I get it, who cares. It's all a matter of opinion and taste anyway, and I'm not talking about that. You just—you're awesome, Bella, and I love your sarcasm, don't get me wrong, but as far as joking about yourself, your sarcasm runs so deep it's almost a shield, and you're one step away from needing a therapist. Whatever. That's not what I wanted to say, anyway."

He takes a breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get so worked up. I just want you to consider a point of view, okay? So. The problem with you is that you treat and see everyone as such equals, and do you see how much people appreciate it? Like, you're not petty with girls, you don't gossip, you keep secrets, you're an individual. And I'm not hitting on you or anything."

"I didn't think that," I mutter, wondering where he's going with this. "So the problem is that I see everyone as equals?"

"No. Let me finish. The problem is that while you see everyone else as such equals, you have such a deeply rooted misapprehension of yourself, it's painful to see. Like, everyone else deserves a pedestal, and you're sitting in a hole, working up to it but not feeling worthy of being there. That's the problem."

"What are you, a psychologist?" I ask, more harshly than I intended. I don't know where the anger is coming from, and I try to take breaths. "Who cares, anyway?"

"I do!" he says, clearly upset.

"Why now? Why does it suddenly bother you now?"

"Because it's not fair. You're not being fair to yourself and I can't wait for you to realize in five years that you deserve better than what you have."

"I don't think I deserve less than others."

"Then why do you always undermine your self-confidence with your comments? Do you really think appearance is everything? Like, who gives a fuck? I'm not particularly muscular, do you see my every comment about that? I'm fighting with dandruff, again, who gives a fuck? It's like you have double standards, everyone looks alright except when it's you, it's the end of the world."

I don't think his comments could've hurt me more if he pressed a dagger into my heart. I absolutely hate the fact that my voice wavers, but Edward has become a great friend, and his opinion matters. "So basically you're saying I'm selfish."

"No. I'm saying you're hypocritical, not selfish."

"How is that any better?"

The thing is—it isn't.

"Bella," he says softly, pursing his lips together. "Look, I'm not trying to hurt you."

You managed that without trying, thank you very much.

"I'm just saying these things because I want you to realize that appearance is not the end of the world."

"Wait—so you're saying I'm ugly?" I manage a wilted smile.

"There is no way for me to answer that without pissing you off," he says, and he's so right it already pisses me off. "If I say there's nothing particularly off-putting about your appearance, or that you look beautiful once people get to know you, you'll think I actually mean you're ugly. If I say you're beautiful just the way you are, you'll think I'm lying. So how should I answer? What is the correct answer? Please enlighten me."

I don't say a word.

"So eventually, still, appearance can't matter."

"I know that," I almost whisper.

"Yes, but do you feel like you can't reach something merely because of your appearance?" he says, waiting for my answer. "Well, do you?"

I absolutely hate the fact that he's right, and I feel so shallow. I've never felt like such absolute shit in my life. Am I really about to cry? Holy fuck. I will not cry. I refuse to cry. He doesn't need to see that.

I nod, avoiding his eyes. I wonder how we got to this point. We had such an awesome day, and not even during my lowest point could Michael Newton make me feel like such scum. Sure, that was because he's not someone whose opinion I value, but still.

"What I'm wondering is how you got that way. So, okay, you're not Megan Fox or Charlize Theron. Why do you think it matters? You set such different standards for others than you do for yourself. Why? What's made you think your appearance is what defines you? Sure, you pretend you don't give a fuck, but you're scared that you do, and I'm curious. What happened? Why?"

"Because!" I find myself shouting, and we both stop. I'm so angry and hurt and I'm on the verge of crying. I'm shaking. Why does he care? Why now? I just don't want to talk about this. "Just because, okay?! Because it matters! Because when I grew up, my mom always loved pretty girls! Because she's one of them, and now we have nothing in common! Because my dad's so eager to lie when it comes up! Because I was bullied for so long because of it! Because when I was in eighth grade, Michael Newton, he—"

There is no denying it. I'm crying. I hiccup. Very glamorous, Bella. Very.

"He what, Bella?" he asks, so tenderly I consider looking up at him. I don't. I'm so embarrassed to cry in front of him. I haven't cried for two years, and now Edward—of all people—is the cause. Not because he has cruel intentions, but because of the opposite. No-one's really cared for so long about how I think and feel and act and say and why. I'm scared shitless.

"What'd he do?" he whispers.

I take a deep, shaky breath, and stand there in silence. I continue to hiccup, and my throat hurts so much. I'm not going down that road, even if it's Edward.

"Thanks for, you know, walking home with me," I murmur, my voice breaking. "I'm sorry I'm so shallow."

I start toward my driveway, but Edward grabs onto my sleeve and doesn't let go. "Please tell me that's not what you registered from this conversation."

"No—I, uh, I get it, you know. It makes—sense. I never thought of it that way, but it makes perfect sense. It's both hypocritical and, uh, shallow of me to be how I am, but I can't change myself overnight, you know? Why—why do you think I act the way I do?" I sniff and try to avoid stammering, but it's unavoidable. "This, this might sound so—so, you know, inconsequential to you, but I really have been trying to—to let go of it, and not feel hurt, and not be scared or prejudiced—not want revenge for what was done to, to me for years. But it—it doesn't go overnight. It doesn't. If it did, I wouldn't be crying over a few simple words right now."

That's it. I've poured my soul out for him to see. It's liberating, but it hurts so much. I take a shaky breath.

"Bella," he whispers. "I don't judge you half as much as you think I do. I wasn't judging you. I was just trying to understand you. I only wanted to know why you would think so highly of others when your own self-esteem is at the bottom of a hole."

I nod in understanding. He glances at my house, and it's unlit except for the porch light. Edward wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his side. I find comfort in the action.

"You're in no condition to be home alone. Is it okay if I come in for a while? Just until you calm down."

"Your parents wouldn't mind?"

"I'll send them a message."

"Please don't tell them that I'm—I'm, you know, a mess."

"I'll just tell them I'm with the Swans. They won't mind."

I take a breath so deep my lungs hurt. "If you could—just for a while."

"I'll stay as long as you want me to."

Yeah. Probably not.

"Thank you."

We enter the house, and it's quite chilly and empty and dark. I heat up yesterday's pasta and chicken for the both of us, and we eat it in silence in my bed. Slowly but surely, I calm down. I'm still trying to wrap my head around what he said. I do not resent him for caring. I do not resent him for making me cry. I just hate the fact that it's so easy for me to get worked up over something that shouldn't matter at all.

"You know, I got the best night's sleep back in one oh six," Edward admits, smiling. He's being really careful with me, and I don't like it. I want him to always feel comfortable around me.

"Me, too," I reply, and dear God, I feel myself blushing. I did not walk in on anyone having sex, why am I blushing? Annoying.

We lay on my single bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling. My desk lamp is switched on, but the rest of the house is dark. I kick my door closed.

"If I'd known it's such a—you know—sore spot, I wouldn't have pried, I swear. I just thought the answer would be simple, but it never really is, is it?"

I hum in reply.

"And Bella, you're not shallow. I wasn't trying to imply you were."

"I know. You don't have to apologize for anything," I reply. "Really. I think I'm more upset by the fact that everything you mentioned, I felt, and it's unfair that I thought I was over everything when clearly my wounds run deeper than that." I took a breath. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

"I'm glad you did. You were honest, and I like honesty. Inconvenient truth over reassuring lies anytime."

"How deep."

"Oh, I am very deep."

"I know, you just ate, like, half a pot of pasta."

He laughs. "I think I did. But you ate the other half, so you must be deep, too."

"We're so deep," I huff, snickering before we both burst out laughing. "Hey, want to play a game of bullshit?"

"What's that?"

"It's a card game."

"Sure. Explain the rules, and be prepared to get your ass kicked."

"Don't be so confident. I happen to have master skills at the game."

"We'll see."

I get up, take a deck of cards from my drawer, and we sit in front of each other, cross-legged. I shuffle the cards and explain the rules. We play three times, and I win them all. He huffs and puffs, but I can tell he's just teasing and doesn't really mind. In the end, we lay on my bed again, staring at the ceiling. It's funny, I've never really thought about being comfortable around a guy friend, but Edward and I, we don't actually have to fill the silence with trifle words. And, it strikes me that the difference between an acquaintance and a friend is the need to fill the silence. We don't have that need. He's really my friend.

I absentmindedly stare at his hair before I realize. "Hey—you don't have dandruff!"

"Yes I do," he answers, turning his head toward me. I lean closer and feel like a monkey when I flip through his hair.

"I can't see a single scale."

"Maybe you need glasses. I do have them."

I continue to flip through his hair. "Ah! I see one. That little bugger!"

"See? I do have dandruff."

"One scale is hardly considered dandruff."

"Maybe I've managed to heal my scalp. I dunno. I did have it."

"Maybe you should join a shampoo commercial."

"Maybe I will." He scrunched is face, yawned really noisily and looked at me. "What would happen if I fell asleep right here? I don't want to face my parents."

"Why not?"

"They're just…so overwhelming. I wish I had five siblings to draw their attention elsewhere. They're so worried all the time."

"Feel free to sleep with me anytime. I won't complain."

He lets out a laugh. "You are so absurd."

"Why thank you." I smile. "What's the time anyway?"

"Late," he answers, turning toward me. "Now, turn. Someone promised to sleep with me."

"Ego." But I turn toward the wall, and he wraps his arm around my waist. Just like he wondered what made me the way I am, I now wonder the same. How come he's always so casual about touching? Not that I mind. Not at all. But in my world, men aren't casual about these things. Like, in romcom stories and shit, brothers are always super caring and hugging and kissing foreheads and such. Mine? Never. Mine beats up the semi-popular scumbag of the school, so I know he cares, but he doesn't just randomly hug me. And kissing my forehead? Are you kidding me? He'd rather go to school naked. Awkward.

Jesus, maybe I'm one of those traumatic cases of attention deprivation? Like I received so little affection in my childhood I now starve for it? Like I feel special whenever anyone shows any signs of affection? That's just sad.

So I decide to ask. "Edward?"

He hums back at me.

"How come you're so casual about touching?"

"What?"

"I asked—how come you're so casual about touching? I'm just wondering about the male species here."

I feel him shrug. "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all. I'm just wondering if it's, like, how you were raised or it's something that's just belongs to the person that is Edward Cullen?"

"Both, maybe. My parents are very touchy-feely, if you noticed, and I guess that's why I regard it as natural."

"Huh."

"Why? Your parents weren't?"

"No. I never remember them acting like your parents. I was just thinking if that's why I noticed something like this. Like I starve for affection or something," I said, and then grinned. "But don't worry, you won't see my Facebook status tomorrow, saying I've hugged Edward Cullen. Although the girls at school would trollify with envy."

He laughs. "Trollify?"

"You know, turn into trolls."

"You are so weird."

"So you keep telling me."

He sighs, and I do, too.

"Bella?"

"Hm?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're probably my best friend."

I feel all warm and fuzzy, but instead of _aw_ing, I laugh, and impolitely at that. "'Take this the wrong way?' What's that supposed to mean? Like, don't be flattered, I think you're a pretty cool guy?"

He shrugs. "No idea. I don't think half as much as you seem to. Let's just shut up and pretend we have no homework."

"I like that idea."


	8. Sparkly Chicken Slippers & a Stolen Kiss

"Incidentally, disturbance from cosmic background radiation is something we have all experienced. Tune your television to any channel it doesn't receive and about 1 percent of the dancing static you see is accounted for by this ancient remnant of the Big Bang. The next time you complain that there is nothing on, remember that you can always watch the birth of the universe." ― Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_

: :

_Sunday, the 5th December (yes, still)  
9:32 PM. Emmett and I have officially made an attempt at supper. It took us a burnt pot of rice, a fire alarm & one and a half hours. But finally, we made something special and super complex. Pasta._

_Also, note to self, Sarah McLachlan's River, too, is a pretty unorthodox winter song. It will go well with my iTunes list._

Dear Emmett,

After a lifetime of living with you, you are still incapable of knocking on my door before barging in. Why? I always knock on your door when I need to talk to you or use the computer or something. Always. Then again, maybe that's because I'm afraid of catching you, um, you know. I won't spell it out.

Just learn to knock, okay? I'd appreciate it. One day in the close future—and by that, I mean in twenty years or so—I, too, would like to have a sex life. I know, ew. Now that you have that ugly visual, will you please knock? Thanks.

So, on Thursday evening, at around ten PM or so, my door opened.

"Bella, why is your door—dad! Bella's got a boy in her room!"

"Emmett!"

"They're sort of snuggling or—"

"I'm not even on the bed!"

"—something and she's—"

"Shush!" I whisper. "Edward's asleep. He's pretty tired. Let him sleep."

"Oh, it's only Edward."

"Yeah."

"False alarm dad!"

"Stop yelling."

He pauses to look at what I'm doing, and sits down on the floor next to me. I'm leaning on the bed. Edward's feet are dangling off of it. If I hadn't fully comprehended his tallness before, I certainly did now.

"We didn't know you were home," he says, and I don't reply. "So, what're you doing? Math?"

I hum in response.

"Why?"

"We have a test tomorrow. And so do you."

"I know, but it's easy-D material."

"I want it to be easy-A material."

"You are so conscientious it's embarrassing."

"Such a way with women, Emmett. I will take that as a compliment," I reply. "Besides, not all of us have a supposed football career helping us leap into college."

"I do, huh."

I momentarily close my math book to look at him. "What do you want, Emmett? Coming into my room without a reason? I don't think so."

"Just wanted to see if you were up to playing some corona."

"Just the two of us?"

Jasper clears his throat from the doorway. Since when is my room some kind of a train station? What's so special about my room? What I really like about my room, you know—yes, Emmett, still speaking to you—is that it's mine. Mine. I don't own many things, mind you, I've never been raised to be particularly materialistic, but I do value personal space.

Hint, hint, Emmett.

"But Edward's asleep," I reason. I like playing corona with the boys, but it's just… Edward hasn't slept well for quite a few nights, it seems, and if my presence helped him shut off his brain from thinking about his sister's health—which, instead of improving or deteriorating, is now a complete unknown for us (I'll explain later)—the better. After hearing more about his implied worry about his sister (because he never flat out tells me he's concerned, but it's kind of obvious), I think he should sleep. Really.

I would even go so far as to send a text message to his parents from his phone to let them know he'd be spending the night. If written with enough prudence, I'm sure I could make them agree. Even if they did know he's with me, it's not like they think we're involved. Even Emmett doesn't think that anymore. I mean, come on. If Emmett sees how unrealistic something between us is, anyone with enough brain-power to change a light bulb can. And I'm not being bitter or anything. Just stating the facts. Besides, from the sound of it, I really am the only person to know that he's got a sister in Chicago, and I can see why being with his parents would exhaust him. They're probably able to tell something is up, but I'm pretty sure he's trying to cover his foul mood up as the change of scenery or something. I know I would.

So, he's here to have someone listen to him without judgment. Well, actually, he's here to make sure I was alright, but that was prior to me actually being alright. Oh, shit, this is confusing.

Anyway.

Before I can say anything, Emmett and Jasper, in a true soul-mate fashion (hardy har har), jump on Edward. Literally. Emmett leaps onto Edward's back and Jasper on his feet. I let out a weak huff and put my book and papers on the table.

Oh, what the heck. They're just trying to have some fun.

So I join.

I crouch behind Edward's feet and tickle him. Up until then, he'd let out a grunt, but hadn't moved much, but now he twitches and writhes and huffs a chuckle. I beam at both Emmett and Jasper, which they return.

Ladies and gentleman, we have found a weak spot.

"Guys—hmph—I'd appreciate it if you—hmph—let me breathe."

"We're going to play a game of corona," Emmett says. "You'll join."

"Hmph."

"Is that a yes I hear?"

"Hmph."

"Okay, it seems Edward wants to play corona," Emmett says with an exaggerated fake-sigh. "Alright, Edward! If you insist." He hops off Edward's back, and Edward gasps for breath. We can all see it's overdone, he wasn't really hurt, but it still worries me, just a little. Emmett is pretty built.

"I would've agreed had you woken me up without attempting to paralyze me," Edward says hoarsely. He's rubbing his eyes, but he's smiling.

"Sorry, dude." Emmett grins. "But if you're going to make a habit out of sleeping in Bella's bed, we might have to buy her a new bed. If you were sleeping on your back, your feet could've easily touched the ground. There must be some rule against that."

"Ah, I'll just buy her a new bed for Christmas."

"That's the spirit," Emmett answers. "Now, since you insisted, let's go play corona. Jazz'll take you home later."

It's ten PM, but none of us cares. Dad isn't home—oh, gee, what a surprise—and even if he were, he's never forbidden staying up late playing corona or cards or anything of the sort. He's more worried about the time we are not at home. He's smart like that.

I'm not being sarcastic. Really. If I were to do something incredibly stupid, I would hardly bother doing it when dad knows I'm "up and about". Same goes for Emmett. Dad knows very well that a curfew for us would immediately result in some inadequate decisions. So we don't have one. He expects us home in the evening, sure, but if he's not home himself, it sort of defeats the point.

It's half an hour to midnight when we finish playing. It's so much fun. Edward beat us all twice and Emmett got so mad he broke a cue. It was an accident, really—he tripped over a chair whilst talking about Edward "cheating"—but for some reason, we all laughed.

: :

You know what I accidentally found out on Friday? Mr. Black, our class' PE teacher and school's football coach, cannot stand Michael Newton. Yes, really. I accidentally heard him cornering him and threatening that if he 'doesn't stop' (stop what? I have no idea), Mr. Black is going to throw him out of the team and no college is going to want him. I should've known the coach can't stand him for the sheer amount of times he's interrupted Michael's little torments—where the victim was going to be either me or someone else—with a comment or two in Michael's direction.

I wish I could say that, oh, Michael Newton is not that talented anyway, or not that special, not that fast and whatnot. If life were fair, he'd be a below-average player, he'd learnt his lesson and come to apologize and shit. He won't. Not that he could get away with a mere apology for the shit he did, whether it was me or Eric at the receiving end. And Michael Newton? He's fast. He's the quickest effing quarterback since, like, ever, and he's got a great chance to be snatched up by some college, and maybe even some Ivy-League institution. Quick feet open doors.

If his own coach doesn't like him very much, he must think he's hitting rock bottom.

And you know what's really annoying? He's won the Seattle Summer Marathon three—yes, three—times in a row. Do you know how rare it is for a person to be a sprinter _and_ a marathon runner? Simultaneously? If there is such a thing as talent, he must have it. And that annoys the shit out of me.

I'm also quite baffled as to where all the Kenyans have been hiding for three years. Because they're fast.

Just before lunch, I catch Edward alone next to his locker, with an expression so detached it almost gives me goose bumps. During breaks, a variety of students have come up to him to say hi and chat about his opinion of Seattle and football and drama and such. They like to be around him. And I've recently noticed that Edward doesn't 'um' and 'uh' all that much anymore. Sure, he still doesn't like speaking in front of a group of people, but even during the month he's been here, he's changed.

But this time, he's alone, and when I tap his shoulder, he raises his eyes and instead of saying anything, a hand with a phone appears in front of my face. I question him with my eyes before he nods.

_We regret to inform you that your friend Rosalie passed away last night. We'll have a private family ceremony in her honor on Sunday, in Saint…_

Well, fuck. I have absolutely no concept of how to react to something like this. I've never been in this situation, and I don't think anything I say would make it any easier for him. So I say nothing. I just stare at him. He has this completely absent look in his eyes that continues to creep me out.

And I remember. I can't comfort him with words, but I can pull him into a hug. So I do. Because if I've learned anything about him at all during the past month, it's that he sees caring in a simple touch. I know he does. And I care. No-one else knows about this, and I care plenty.

I'm pretty sure we draw quite a bit of attention on ourselves, but it's trivial.

"Thanks," he squeezes me before pulling away. I'm surprised by how composed he is. Not even a glassy look. "But look at the other one before drawing any conclusions. That one was from her current family."

He opens another message, and I read.

_She escaped. We don't know where, if she's alone or not. Mentally, she should be okay. She was coherent the night before. I'll keep you updated. —Victoria V._

I'm blown away. This is so far beyond what I've experienced in life, and I have no idea how to react.

So I ask, "Which one do you trust?"

"Victoria. I've talked to her before. The first one came from a strange number, and even though they say where they're going to have the ceremony, they also say it's completely private. No guests. So that's a little odd."

"So she's alive?"

"To the best of our knowledge." He lets out a breath. "Let's go eat, and I'll tell you. As much as I know, anyway."

We get chicken with rice, and sit next to a table where Eric is sitting alone. He always sits alone. I smile and wave at him, and he offers this pursed lips sort-of-smile. Our own table-mates are raising eyebrows at us, but I smile and wave at them, too, just to let them know we're not offended by some imaginary remark or anything.

"So. What's going on?"

"Her current family is bunch of abusive assholes, that's what's going on. Probably." He sighs and averts his eyes from Eric to me and back. Deciding Eric isn't going to gain much from our conversation, he continues. "I'm not speaking facts, though. Just a theory. But she's going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks, and maybe they wanted to discharge her and take her back home, so she ran. But again, just a theory."

"Have you got any idea where she might run? Would she go out of Chicago? Illinois? Out of the States?"

"No clue," he answers, running a nervous hand through his hair as he eats. He looks so much older than his age right now.

"Is there any way for us to help her?"

"No clue."

I sigh and continue to eat. This is such a surreal conversation. I mean, I know shit happens and all that, and life is really unexpected, but you never really imagine anything like this happening to someone you know. It's always someone else out there somewhere, not a friend of yours sitting right next to you.

"Do you know if she's, you know, healthy? Okay to be running alone?"

Even before I utter the words, I know it's a dumb question. She just had brain surgery, like, three days ago? Not okay to be wondering around Chicago alone.

Edward shrugs because he can't answer. Neither can I.

I put a hand on his forearm to make him look at me. "Hey, we'll figure it out, okay?"

For the first time since I discovered him staring off into the distance, he really takes a moment to look at me. "I know." And he smiles. "Thanks for listening to my venting."

"Of course. You listened to me yell yesterday, it's only fair."

"I just wish I could, I don't know, find a solution."

"We will."

He gives me this gentle smile before we both finish eating and continue with the day. Life hasn't shown signs of mediocrity since Edward arrived, and while it's different in a good way, it has also brought problems. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

I ace the Math test. I'm glad I do.

It's sort of become a habit to walk home with Edward (when that's our destination, that is), so we do. And I can't help but think about Edward's comments about my perception of myself. I've thought a lot about that. I haven't written much of it in my diary, but it's been in my thoughts since we had the argument.

"I've thought about what you said yesterday," I admit and look up at him. I don't think I can ever fully appreciate the package he represents. Yeah, he's handsome, all straight teeth and sharp jawline and green eyes. But I never really focus on it because he also cares so much about the people in his life, and he's just such a fascinating guy. And the fact that he'd care about something as inconsequential as the way I think about my appearance? Speaks volumes of his character.

"And what did you conclude?"

"I have a long way to go," I reply. "I know it's a problem, but it'll take some time for me to dig out the cause. Because it really starts with the way I think rather than the way I act. So I should start from there."

"Wow."

"What?"

"You really have been thinking about it. Thank you."

"No, thank you," I answer a bit shyly. "But it's just… It won't come overnight. And I'll probably never be entirely okay with the way I look. But I'm working on it. I'm even…"

And I almost tell him I've started to jog in the mornings, but I don't. I know he wouldn't laugh or anything, but for some reason, I feel more comfortable keeping that for myself. So I do. And he doesn't push.

"It's probably not my place, but… what did Michael Newton do?"

I hum and sigh. "I'd rather not. Not now."

Not ever.

"Okay," he replies, and perks up considerably before asking, "Hey—who's your gift to in Drama?"

I grin. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes. Yes I would." He beams. "Is it me?"

It's not. It really isn't. It's Laurent, and I haven't an effing clue what to get him. I should probably talk to him a few times to understand what he likes.

"Why? Did you get me?"

"I wish."

"I know," I answer. "Every night I dream about the king sized bed we're going to buy after our fancy wedding is over. We'll be having so much sex on it."

He sort of just stares at me for a moment. And then? He laughs. Like, really laughs. "How can you be so self-deprecating and so forward simultaneously? You're such an enigma."

"Aw, Edward, did you really just call me enigma?"

"I think I did."

"Why thank you." I stop my pace to bow. "If you keep up with the compliments, you should watch out, I might jump you. And that would make one hell of an awkward friendship."

"Probably," he answers and changes the subject. "Hey, don't laugh, but I'm going to try out for the football team on Wednesday at five PM, and it'd be pretty cool if you could come and cheer for me."

"Why do you think I'd laugh?" I ask, placing a hand on my heart. "I'm insulted."

"So you'll come?"

"Front row. With a basketful of eggs and a sign to prove I am your most devoted fan."

"So when I mess up, you have eggs for me? That's encouraging."

"No, the eggs are for Shawn, Jason and Michael Newton. If they even sneeze your way, they'll be covered in protein."

"Hard as it is to believe, you make it sound fun."

"I hope they share your perspective."

He laughs. "Hey, what about you and I exchange gifts as well?"

"Deal. What do you like?"

"I like snow and, you know, my friends happy."

So I could just wrap myself into wrapping paper, scrub snow into my hair, stand outside of your window, plaster the biggest smile on my face—and you'd be happy?

"That is _very_ _useful _for my knowledge in buying you a gift."

"I know. So what would you like to have?"

I take a minute to think about it, and when he opens his mouth to repeat the question, I admit, "I'd like my mom," I say. "To be here—for Christmas."

He just gives me this odd look but doesn't say anything. I don't know why, but he makes me feel so vulnerable sometimes. Or maybe I make myself feel vulnerable around him by admitting all sorts of stuff to him. Or both. I don't know.

"Why is it that you haven't, you know, seen each other for five years?"

"It's not this big trauma of mine if you're thinking that. It's just that… five years ago, before my parents got the divorce, my dad was adamant in trying to save their marriage. She wasn't. They got married really young when she got pregnant with Emmett, and… uh, I don't know. Dad was so willing to change himself and all before she repeatedly blew up on him and yelled and stuff. It got really personal. After that, he shut himself out of her life and fought for our custody like his life depended on it. You know how rare it is for the dad to win custody, right? He can look so stoic, but when he's passionate about something, he really sort of, I don't know, puts himself out there."

"Kind of like you, huh?" he says.

"If you exclude the part about being stoical, maybe."

"I mean you put yourself out there a lot. I really like that about you."

"Thanks."

"But continue with your story."

"Not much left to say. I just think that—maybe—my mom never fully got over the fact that he got us. Or maybe she's afraid he still feels for her in spite of everything. I dunno."

"But she could still visit. Or give you money for plane tickets or something."

I shrug. I don't have an answer.

Edward's words, however, made me realize I haven't called mom for about a month, and that makes me incredibly guilty. I usually try to call her once a week, after tutoring and before work on Saturday. So first thing when I arrive home, I call her mobile with Bobsled. She doesn't answer. I've never felt comfortable leaving a message, so even if Bobsled let me, I wouldn't. I'll try again later.

Before heading off to the cinema, I take off and rearrange the posters and poems and newspaper articles on my wall. It's been too long since I last had the time. I find a few A3 posters of athletes from old magazines, Wayne Gretzky, Lance Armstrong and Jerry Rice. All from 1990s. I wish I had a female runner or something, someone really inspiring and motivating and athletic-looking. But those guys have to do. I throw away Lance Armstrong because, well, doping or not, I can't look at someone who might've fought unfairly. It's such a heartbreaking story, but I just can't have him up there.

I work until one AM, come home with a taxi (dad would die if I did otherwise), tutor and spend time with Edward and work again on Saturday. Such is life. I'd elaborate, but I refuse not to jog in the morning, and I have to get up wee hours of the morning in order to do that.

So—adios, Emmett!

I hope you're having a blast reading about my extraordinary life.

: :

_Saturday, the 11__th__ December  
Phoenix, AZ  
03:54 AM_

Well, fuck.

I'm baffled. I'm tired from not sleeping more than two or three feeble hours a night. Exhausted.

And then there's this fucking sadness. Bursting and choking and just… fuck.

I guess, on some level, I always dreamed of going outside of Washington State, on a road-trip or an airplane or bus or whatever the fuck. But not like this. Never like this. I cannot rack out… not even for a second. It's not possible.

Fuck it. If I can't do anything else, maybe writing helps. I hope it does, because nothing else has.

It's like the world before this is a flowery goodness where I had a perfect life with the hobbies I love and Edward and no worries and corona with the boys and Drama and… just rainbows and sunshine. And now. None of it matters. I don't give a shit.

I just listen to a song called _Gortoz a ran—J'attends_ over and over and over again. And over again. I listen to it when I break into hysterics (not around mom's friends, though) and when I fall into a fitful sleep and… it's safe to say I've been listening to this song for three days in a row. It's on Emmett's iPod. He's into all the soundtrack music and I've been listening to his iPod since Thursday.

So. On Wednesday, during the sixth lesson with Mr. Newton, during the time I was scribbling something trivial about Waterloo on the blackboard, there was a knock on the door. Peter peeked in. Naturally, I stopped writing. Heads turned.

"May I speak to Miss Swan, please?"

Mr. Newton, who had been casually leaning on the window sill, looked doubtful.

"You seem to have a recurring habit of taking Miss Swan out of my classroom, Mr. Gallaghe. You may speak with her in twenty minutes, after the class."

Peter took a look at the curious students, hesitating. Instead of retreating, he stepped into the classroom, closed the door, and walked over to John Newton. I'd never seen him look so solemn in the two years I've known him, and it kind of creeped me out. My history teacher had a rather arrogant-looking expression up until Peter reached him and whispered something to him. His expression changed entirely, and they both looked at me.

"You are dismissed, Miss Swan. Don't worry about your essay."

I put down the chalk and expected to walk to the door, but Peter shook his head. "Take your stuff."

I reached my table, and when Edward locked eyes with me, we both immediately realized something serious must have happened. He sat, rigid, watching as I tucked my books into my back bag. A moment later, his arm shot up.

"Mr. Newton?"

"Yes?"

"May I go to the bathroom?"

Usually, this results in an immediate resounding denial, but that day, he looked at us both for at least five seconds. Just stared.

But still, he shook his head. "I'm well aware that you two, you're like two peas in a pod, but not this time, Mr. Cullen. I'm sorry."

He visibly shrunk, but leaned over and whispered, "Message me, okay?"

I nodded, if barely.

Peter waited as I packed my belongings, and together, we stepped out of the classroom. I'm glad to get rid of the eyes at the back of my head, but there's an unpleasant feeling in my stomach now. I'm pretty sure he's not here to tell me we have an urgent Drama meeting to figure out who are the lead singers.

"Peter?" Is it dad? Did he have a heart attack or something? Emmett? Cardiac arrest in the football field? Oh, fuck. I feel so light-headed I could vomit.

"Bella? You okay?"

I nod, taking a deep breath. Okay. Maybe they're both fine. Maybe it's something else entirely.

"What's going on? Is my dad okay? Is Emmett? Tell me already." I beg with a voice so distant I wonder if it's mine. "Please."

He avoids my eyes and clears his throat. "I think it's better if we get your brother as well."

I am both relieved and horrified. Emmett is okay. Good. I feel like the character in Hunger Games, capable of only putting together simple sentences waiting for affirmation. Emmett is fine—real or not? Real.

Our footsteps echo. We walk upstairs. We pass a janitor. It's raining outside. We reach 203, Spanish, and Peter knocks, steps into the room, and a moment later, a happy-looking Emmett steps out of the classroom. I'm so glad he's okay, but I can also see he's one step away from throwing his fist into the air and being all, 'We're skipping class together? Awesome!' But his expression sobers once he registers ours.

"What's wrong?"

"Yeah, Peter."

He starts walking. We join. We go back downstairs, pass the classrooms and halt in front of our lockers.

"It's your mother," he finally says. "Your dad will be here any moment to take you home."

Fuck.

These are not the words you hear when someone's been taken to a hospital.

"What happened?" Emmett presses. "She's alright, right?"

"It's not really my place…"

"Peter," I say. "Please stop beating around the bush. You should know me better than that. Just tell us."

"She's alive, right?" Emmett repeats.

Peter just avoids our gaze. "I'd rather you heard it from your father."

"Peter."

He shakes his head. "Just… take your stuff. Your dad'll be here."

Confused and horrified, we do as he says, and pretty soon, dad steps into the schoolhouse. He's completely shut down. Like, no emotion whatsoever. Emmett and I just sort of stare at each other.

"Okay, kiddos, got your stuff? Let's go then."

"Dad," I say.

"Mom's alright, right?" Emmett repeats like a broken record. It's this one particular idea that holds him together.

Dad stops in front of his police cruiser, and turns around. His eyes flicker from my jacket to Emmett's and back.

"It's your mom."

"Yeah, we know. What about her? She's okay, right?" Emmett says. I purse my lips together when Emmett looks for me for confirmation.

"She…" He shakes his head. "She, uh, Mr. Dwyer called the headmaster because he didn't know how to contact us. Mr. Kramer called me. You two will be flying off to Arizona tonight."

Fuck, why can't he just say it? It's torture. Just say it.

"Is she dead?" I ask, and it sounds incredibly loud and insolent in my ears, but I need to know. I hate beating around the bush. Hate it. Emmett pales as if my words never occurred to him, and we both stare at dad.

Dad doesn't say anything. He just nods.

"What? No," Emmett denies. "She can't be! That can't be. I just spoke to her, like, a week ago. She's fine."

We get into the car, I sit at the back and Emmett at the front. I'm focusing on my breathing. I feel like I'm watching us from afar, judging our reactions and wondering why I'm not crying yet. Emmett keeps repeating that she couldn't possibly be. In the back of my mind, I realize it's his coping mechanism. What's mine? In movies and such, whenever such news are delivered at any point in the story, the protagonist—almost without exception—immediately bursts into tears. Or starts yelling. Throwing stuff. I just feel like, I don't know, like this couldn't have happened. It's not possible.

Almost the entire way, Emmett keeps asking himself or dad—I'm not sure—if mom is alright. I sit. I watch trails of raindrops. It's just… it's unreal. I don't think this could be happening. I wish I had a Victoria V. person to send me a text message saying that she's okay but simply decided to become a nun and move to Mongolia.

We reach home and hover in the kitchen in silence. Emmett is holding his hands in his pockets as he watches dad pull out food from the fridge. I lean on the wall. I'm not hungry. Neither is Emmett.

"How?" I finally ask. My voice is hoarse.

Emmett holds his breath.

"How what?" dad asks, sincerely confused. For some reason, it stirs my emotions.

"People don't just randomly drop dead, dad. How?"

She doesn't own a car. She doesn't drink much. She doesn't smoke. She isn't into extreme sports. I'm not reaching for the moon here by asking.

He clears his throat. "The flu."

"Come again?"

"The flu," he repeats.

"The flu?"

"The flu."

I'm not entirely stupid. I know you can die of flu. But it's an answer so anticlimactic and unexceptional it doesn't seem to account for the stir of emotions of the news. I've watched too many motion pictures, I know, but in movies, it's always '_there was an accident, a drunk driver hit your mother_.' Something dramatic. Something to give me an object of anger. Someone to blame. I want to blame someone.

I can't.

"She got—uh—pneumonia and it—it got discovered too late, it was, uh, one of those kinds, and she was, the antibiotics she was on didn't, uh, work, and…" He takes a breath and doesn't end the sentence. I'm blinking at him. At the speed of a blinking smoke detector. Slowly.

Why am I not crying yet? I don't think this is really happening. Or maybe I'm just such a shitty person. I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Okay." I need to act. I'll go crazy if I don't. "So. We're going to Arizona. Tonight. Don't you want to, uh, come with us, dad?"

He looks away, and I think I've asked too much. It's too new. Too raw. But he shifts in his place and stops messing with the food. He sits.

"We don't—I don't—there's not enough money."

"How much is a two-way plane ticket to Phoenix?"

"Four fifty, give or take. I barely have—" he stops. But I know what he's trying not to say. He barely has enough for me and Emmett.

"If you had the money, would you—would you like to come?"

"Of course I fucking want to come! Fuck!" he shouts, and the raw anger is so sudden I back away a little. "She's my wife, for Christ's sake! She's your mother! She's the sweetest—how can you even—"

He blinks furiously and slouches back into the seat. A moment later, he breaks into sobs. Real sobs. Heaving and red faced, tears streaming down his face kind of sobs. It breaks me. It's the first time since we got the news that I actually feel like this is happening. It's real. She's really gone. My throat gets so tight it's almost impossible to breathe, and I sit next to him. Emmett's on the other side and already has a hand on his shoulder.

"I—I'm so—so sorry, dad," I rasp. He just shakes his head with his face in his hands. I've never tolerated a crying man. There's just something so genuinely heartbreaking about it, and it makes me cry, too. And I know he's not really angry at me. But still.

"I think I—I have the money. So—so you can come."

He takes a shaky breath, desperately trying to hide the fact that he's crying. "What—how?"

"I—I've been saving up for, for—I have almost six hundred."

"But, that's—that's your own, uh, money. You—you earned it yourself."

He's leaning his head against his hands, but he's looking at me sideways, with an expression so hurt and heart-broken and sad I immediately know I've already spent the money on his—or mine—plane ticket. He's not _not_ coming. He loved her.

"You're coming," I say. My voice doesn't crack once. He looks at me, all teary and red-faced and sad, and hugs me. Really hugs me. And I know I've won. He wants to come, and he cannot turn down the offer.

"Thank you," he says with a weepy voice. "You—you—thank you. You and your mom, you're so alike."

I nod in his embrace. It's the biggest compliment.

He takes a very deep, very shaky breath, and pulls away. He wipes his face surreptitiously while Emmett and I pretend not to notice his tears. If there's any man on this planet who doesn't want to admit to crying, it's our dad, and we respect that.

"I—we should all, uh, pack. And, Emmett, could you—you're better at… could you buy plane tickets?"

"I'll do it," I offer. I might not be Emmett's best buddy or anything, but I am his sister, and I am well aware that when Emmett needs to digest bad news, he wants to run off for a while and get it out. If he doesn't, he'll go nuts on the plane, and he doesn't need that. He is right to take it out.

Our eyes lock, and I know he knows that I single-handedly offered him an opportunity to do just that. In this tiny little moment, he gives me a small nod, a nod so appreciative I wonder what happened to the brother I knew. He's changed. I've changed. The moment he turns away his eyes, he puts on his oldest shoes and disappears through the front door.

I buy three two-way tickets for a plane that takes off at midnight. We're coming back on Saturday, late evening. Dad excuses himself to go to the store, and even though I know it's probably a white lie, I don't care. We all need some time to digest.

After that, I lie on my bed. I sniff and weep silently without bothering to find a tissue. You could say I just cry a lot. There's no artistic way to put that. I cry myself into a bumbling mess before I force myself to put on the light and sit in front of a mirror. Just sit. Nothing more. I assess my appearance, comparing it with the photograph of my mom. There is barely any similarity. She's got short…ish light hair, blue eyes, dimples, wide eyes. She's beautiful. She was beautiful. Unbelievably.

And something just hits me. I don't know why I do it, but I stare at my less-than-satisfactory reflection and grab scissors. I take my braid into my left hand and cut it off from the beginning. My hair falls out of the braid, and the length is alien. I wonder if I should bag my braid for wigs for kids going through chemotherapy or something. So I don't throw it away. I let it fall. I take more hair, and cut more. I brush my hair. I cut. I brush. I cut. I repeat the process.

When I finally take the time to process my reflection, I am almost unrecognizable. In the front, my hair falls in the middle of my forehead, and it is one and a half inches at most. I cut off the parts at the back that feel longer, and… I'm done. I have short hair.

I put my hair into a bag so that I can donate it later.

I don't really pack. I just empty my back bag and throw some necessities into it. A toothbrush. Undergarments. A clean shirt. Sports trousers. Penguin-pattern pajamas. My diary.

Both dad and Emmett stare at my hair when they see me. Neither comments. I'm glad.

Our ride to the airport at nine PM is quiet. Emmett got back only a few hours ago, and he seemed a lot more like he'd accepted it. I wouldn't say he's calm. More like determined. He'd clearly shaken some feelings out of himself on his jog.

It's my first time on a plane, so I pay close attention to the safety information. Dad, Emmett and I talk quietly, dad asks me about my Drama and Emmett about football and it's all suddenly so very polite, so very meaningless. But necessary. It's like we all think if we get off-topic one of us snaps and then we all start to either yell or cry. I don't want to find out if we would.

We arrive at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport when the sun has just risen, at half to eight. It's so bright. We would've arrived much earlier if we hadn't had a layover in Salt Lake City, but was cheaper this way.

Phil and mom live (or lived) in a town called Gilbert in Phoenix area, and even though that's where we're headed, we don't stay in Hyatt Place. We stay at their home.

It's odd. I'm the youngest, and suddenly I'm the one who's taken charge of the trip. I let Phil (whom none of us has ever met) know we've arrived—just like I'd let him know when we're coming—and half an hour of disturbingly bright taxi-riding later, we're here. I never quite realized what an affluent part of town my mom lived in. It's not a castle, but it's a three-story brick house in a very neat subdivision. It's one of those places where you might get scolded for walking on grass.

We meet Phil. He's about dad's height, bald, and in a black suit while us, travelers, wear jeans and whatever. He's also surprisingly young and his mannerisms kind of remind me of dad, which might explain why they actually get along. Dad stays up to talk to Phil and such, but I go straight to sleep. So does Emmett.

Emmett wakes me up at before sunset (even though I ended up napping for only a couple of hours), just before dinner, which involves about a dozen friends of mom's and Phil's whom we've never met. They're all incredibly compassionate and super nice, some of them hug me and say comforting words, but I don't know any of them, so I'm not on the verge of tears yet. I wonder what would happen if Edward were here instead of them.

I'd be a weeping mess, probably. Because he's familiar, he's my friend, and he knows me.

I've gotten a few text messages from him.

_what happened? are you okay? I hope you are. —E._

_school is kind of boring without you, you know? you brighten the day. I hope your dad and brother are alright, too. —E._

_everyone is baffled by your absence in Drama. even Peter doesn't know how to act without you. he refused to tell us anything. I'm worried. when you're ready to talk, I'm here, okay? please be alright. —E._

_Thanks so much, Edward._ _Don't worry about me. Bella_

I don't elaborate. I don't want to break the news through a text message. I hope he'll understand.

Just after I excuse myself from dinner (where, again, everyone looks pretty fancy… except for us), Emmett excuses himself as well. We think alike recently. I tell dad we'll be out, and won't be too late, and out of the door we go. It's not even fifteen minutes from the sunset, but it's really dark. Without lighting it would be pitch black. It's funny how latitude matters. In Seattle, there's at least forty minutes of dusk. Here, it's like a switch.

We choose a random direction, and start walking. I feel a little dizzy from lack of sleep. The entire situation was kind of thrust upon us, and it still feels unreal. Being here. Everything.

"They probably think I'm a complete bitch."

"Why?"

"Because—everyone's, you know, compassionate and teary-eyed and such, and I haven't even felt like, you know, crying. Here, I mean. I don't know these people. I've never met them before. I feel like they knew an entirely different person from the one we knew. And they're all so… fancy."

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Who cares about what they think?"

I hum.

We walk. Some houses have cacti in their front yard. Some have palm trees. It's a different world.

"Hey—what did you talk about with—with mom a week ago?"

"Ah, you know… football. Women."

"Har, har."

He sighs. "She told me she'd grabbed a—a cold. And she's taking, uh, vitamins," he says, struggling not to stutter. "And I told her about what's been happening with us, you know. When I told her you'd met a boy, she—she got really excited. She told me to tell you to—call her." His lips form a line. "I'm sorry—I really—I just… forgot."

"Not your fault."

"She was so happy you'd met Edward. Like, really."

"It's not like that, Emmett. And you know it."

"Yeah," he says, pausing. "I know." Another pause. "But if you were to—you know—suddenly fall madly in love with him and choose him, I don't think dad and I would mind." He gives me this odd semi-grin that looks joking and sad simultaneously. A moment later, he says, "Don't give me that face—you know I'm kidding."

"I know."

But he's talking like it's my choice. Mine. Like Edward's choice didn't matter. I'll just grab Edward by the collar and be all, 'Ahoi, I choose you.'

"I don't want to—to go to the, ah, funeral tomorrow. I just want her to keep living in my head. I don't want the reality."

"Me either."

There are some kids shouting and laughing in the distance.

"Emmett—do you think we could, you and me and dad, we could do our own little, ah, ceremony back in Seattle? Without all these fancy people? Just the three of us."

He pauses. "I'd like that."

We continue to walk.

"Do you remember how mom always loved weird shoes? Like, the rest of her outfit was always perfect, and then she had to have a ridiculous pair of shoes to go with it? I distinctly remember one time when she had this gorgeous white costume and carrot-shaped bright orange heels. It was kind of her thing. Remember?"

"Yeah." He chuckles. "And white. She always wore white. I remember when you were three, I think, I was four, and you'd just discovered you were a girl. You took one of mom's white dresses and fit into her heels. You'd covered your chin and mouth with strawberries. I think it was your idea of a lipstick. It was all over the dress, and dad's friends were over, and when you limped out of mom's bedroom in those ridiculous heels, they just looked at you and laughed. They thought you were the cutest thing ever, and mom didn't even have the heart to be mad at you."

"Oh, wow. I don't remember that."

"Yeah. I was so jealous of the attention you got."

"Really? I'm sorry."

"No-no, it's just—one of those things you don't get when you're a kid. Like, the idea of getting attention. Remember when I hid a stray dog in my room for two days? Mom was allergic and she didn't know why she kept sneezing and stuff. But I don't think I even wanted a dog, I just wanted the attention, good or bad."

I snickered. "And that you got. Couldn't play corona with us for two weeks."

"We've had that game for a long time, huh?"

I hummed. "What else do you remember about her?"

And we just walk and talk. I don't know if I've ever kind of, I don't know, connected with Emmett the way we do here, but I'm grateful we do. It's so enlightening to see our childhood from Emmett's perspective, without my self-esteem affecting my thoughts or hatred of the word talent, or just my point of view. I find out Emmett always liked my piano-playing. He misses hearing it. And that when he was five and I was four, when dad and Emmett saw some girl pushing me on the climbing frame (which very rarely happened when I was at that age), dad made Emmett promise him he'd always look out for me. And that he doesn't know if dad remembers it, but he has. He's looked out for me ever since.

And I tell him how frustrated it used to make me that Emmett was always this strong and fast older brother, and that I could never run faster than him. And that he was always so good at everything (except for math) which made me want to be really competitive at times. I've always envied the fact he could juggle. I'd tried in vain.

He tells me that mom had always had problems with respiratory diseases, a fact I've never been aware of. I guess I remember her having an occasional bronchitis or angina, but I can't remember it being serious. Apparently, it was, a few times. I never knew.

He lets me listen to a song on his iPod that he's filled with soundtrack music. We agree we're both sick of our respective songs, so we switch our technology. I give him my MP3-player in return for his iPod.

We talk about him going off to college, where he's applied to—Seattle Pacific University and a college in New York whose name I've forgotten—and suddenly, we talk about anything and everything. It's good. I ask him if he could stay with me during the funeral, and he gives me this 'duh' look that makes me chuckle. It's a weak one, but it is one nonetheless.

And he does. We don't move from each other's side the entire time. I don't know if I can claim to be a support for Emmett, too, but I will, because it doesn't feel like he's just there for me. I'm there for him, too. Neither of us cries because it doesn't feel like our mom being sent off. They make such perfect and exalting eulogies, such praising speeches that the person described doesn't feel like mom. Like, yes, mom was amazing. She was. But she had her funny quirks and faults that made her, _her_. The person they're describing is a saint.

Our mom wasn't, and that's why we loved her.

Like, she sometimes judged people too quickly, mostly those who wore clothes that were less than satisfactory in her eyes. She valued appearance a lot. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, I'm just saying it's something that mattered to her. The way I remember her, her appearance was always impeccable. And I was usually covered in mud with old trousers. We didn't exactly speak the same language, you could say.

She scrunched her nose every time someone mentioned pickles. She didn't like them at all. If there was even a smell of a piece of pickle in a salad, she could pick it up at the snap of a finger.

She used to read fairy tales to me every evening, and fell asleep before me. I wasn't a big fan of fairy tales, but I loved the fact she wanted to read to me, so I never said anything. I just liked spending time with her.

She made the best lasagna I've ever had. Mouthwatering lasagna.

At one point, people start to leave and offer their condolences, which we accept, side by side. Dad has joined us. He's pulled himself together really well, I have to say. It's obvious this ceremony has spoken to him in a different, heavier way, and I can tell he's struggling with his composure. But I think you'd have to know him well to understand that, so others don't notice.

As people go, I realize most of them are wearing white. Like in a Buddhist funeral. I'm touched by the fact that her friends remembered such a thing.

That evening, as we have another dinner with a group of friends—since dad seems to be oddly fitting into Phil's circle of friends—Emmett and I sneak off again. We're both exhausted. Surprisingly, despite everything, I've managed to jog every day and forced myself to eat properly. It's never been more difficult to shove delicious food down my throat. I cannot afford not to gain weight.

We repeat our walk, and continue with the conversation. I really feel like I've never properly known my brother until now. It's not like I didn't know him well before, it's just so different.

There's this immediate trust between us now.

I'm going to go for another jog. We have a flight in the evening, and then we'll be back in Seattle.

I'm glad that writing helped. I wonder if mom ever wrote a diary.

: :

_Tuesday, the 14__th__ of December  
10:01 PM. Back in Seattle. Now listening to Hans Zimmer's Tennessee on repeat. I think it's progress. _

Phil was gratuitously welcoming toward us for the entire duration of our stay. He even went so far as to mention we're welcome to stay with him if we happen to be in Phoenix.

Yeah. Oops! Where am I? Oh, I just found myself from Phoenix, sorry.

He wants me to have mom's entire collection of beauty products, and let me tell you, it wouldn't fit into two suitcases. There is a lot of it. I politely decline, but I do notice a pair of sparkling, yellow chicken slippers. Even with mom's standards, it's one of the most ridiculous things I've seen, and I immediately know that if he's offering me to have something, this is what I want.

"Can I have these?" I pull them out from under the table.

"I'm offering you anything of hers, all her pearl and gold necklaces, and this is what you choose?"

"Yes."

He frowns and scratches his bare scalp. "Of course. She has others, too—would you like to see those?"

"No. Just these."

"Nothing else?"

I shake my head.

"Wow, she wasn't kidding about you."

And I cannot _not_ ask, "What? What did she say about me?"

"I asked her about you two because you're hers. She said you weren't one for the glitter, that you're one for content rather than appearance. And that you're so very genuine. She emphasized that. And fun. She really appreciated and loved you a lot, you know, even though you two didn't see each other for a while. I hope you knew that."

"I did," I say, swallowing back the tightness in my throat. "And, Phil—thanks for taking care of us and everything. I am happy she found a guy like you."

"If only we'd had more time, huh?" he asks, and it is the first time during these three days that I really see the damage my mom left behind. He breaks eye contact, but he's got tears in his eyes.

I nod.

Dad shakes Phil's hand and thanks him before we go. So do we. It's been a surreal couple of days. A heartbreaking couple of days.

The flight back is different, and that's because right away, I ask dad about mom. To tell us about mom. Things he loved, things he hated, situations he remembers, just… the real part of her, not the saint part. And dad? I never knew, but he's as eager to talk about her and remember her best as we are to listen. So he talks. How they were best friends before anything. How they fell in love. How they struggled with two little kids and full time jobs. How much they loved each other.

We listen. I learn things I never knew, I learn so much. I want to remember the best of her, the real her, not a phantom saint worshipped at a funeral. She was real. At one point, we're all teary-eyed and snickering at a joke dad made, and the rest of the passengers don't know what to make of us.

When we arrive back, it's like stepping from bright day to wet night. It's still raining in Seattle.

As we head off to the bathrooms, dad pulls me aside before we can enter. He takes a deep breath and looks nervous. Like he's about to deliver a speech.

He looks dead in my eye. "Bella… did I make a mistake by fighting for your custody?"

His words are so silent and vulnerable.

"What? No! Dad, why would you think that?"

He averts his eyes. "Just… you could've had more time with her… And now you saw where you could've lived. She would've been able to offer you so much more. I was just so stubborn and determined to at least have you guys I didn't—think."

"Dad, no."

He looks really torn. "And now you had to spend your savings on my plane ticket—I'll pay you back, Bella. I will. You've always been a little different from other girls. You've worked and saved money for years and I doubt it was for an iPad. What was it for?"

I just shake my head. "It doesn't matter, dad. Just look at it as if I'd paid for my own ticket, okay?"

"Bella, please," he pleads. "I'll pay you back regardless of what it was for—even if was for an iPad, I'd just like to know. Amuse your old man."

"It's not important, dad. There's no need to pay me back. I'll live."

"You don't want to tell me?"

"Not really. You'll laugh."

"I promise not to."

"Why are you so determined to find out, dad? Why does it matter?"

"Because I want to—to understand my daughter better. Is that a crime?"

I realize—he's never really asked me anything important in his life. And even though this isn't as important to him as it is to me, I decide to trust him. He would've found out anyway had I actually gotten far enough to go to an interview in the application process.

"It was for a plane ticket to go to an interview in—New York. There are a few colleges over there that I hoped to get in." Just one, actually.

His mouth pops open, just slightly, and it's not a gasp, but it's as close to speechless as I've ever seen him.

"It was for—college?" He clears his throat and purses his lips in a line as if he were about to cry. "Fuck."

"Dad—it's okay. Really. I probably wouldn't have gotten in, anyway. It's no big deal. It would've been next year, anyway."

"Bella—my daughter makes her own money to hope to get into the college she wants to go and I use it because I don't have enough. How is that okay?"

"It is, believe me. It's not like we wasted it."

He keeps shaking his head, but drops the subject. "But—I just want to know—did I make a mistake by having you here?"

"You mean did we suddenly realize we would've loved to have fancy dinners every night and not walk on grass and have a TV so big it covers the entire wall? No."

"Thank God. But you—you could've had more time with mom. I'm so sorry. We could've had a road trip to go there or something. I'm sorry, Bella."

"We didn't know, dad."

He sort of exhales with the words. "So I did good?"

"Yes. You did well."

"I never tell you this, Bella, we never seem to talk much, but I want you to know—I'm so proud of you. I'm proud of the woman you're becoming."

: :

The only white article of clothing in my closet is a knee-length simple dress. I realize I haven't worn it for two and a half years, I think. I pull it over my head, over my long-sleeved white shirt. The dress is almost mid-thigh now, not as loose around me—it's almost tight, even—and unbelievable as it is, it accentuates my non-existent curves. I pull on white pantyhose before turning in front of the bathroom mirror and acknowledging the faint line of my calves. Two weeks of jogging haven't turned me into a gorgeous lady, but I feel healthier. Slowly, I'm developing muscles, and I've probably gained a few pounds.

I feel pretty.

When I head downstairs, I immediately notice that Emmett is wearing a white button-down. Sure, he's got black suit pants, but it's not like he's got a closet full of white pants. The proper official-looking attire is not _him_ at all, but it looks good. Girls will be throwing themselves at him one by one. I doubt he'll notice.

We nod at each other, eat breakfast in silence and walk to school together. It's like we silently acknowledge our respective effort, so there's no need to talk about it. So we don't. It's our silent salute to our one and only mom.

We stop just after entering our two-story schoolhouse, in the wardrobe. I know that going to school will help us move on more quickly, but that doesn't make moving on any easier. Interacting. Talking. Smiling. Edward.

I feel the intense need to go back home and not see anyone I know, and when I look over, Emmett seems to share my feelings. We stand there for half a minute, perhaps. I don't know. But we do pull each other into a hug, a real hug, and stay that way for a minute.

He mutters, "It'll get easier. It has to."

I hum in reply.

"I like your chicken slippers."

I chuckle weakly before we pull away. He raises his pants, and he's wearing pink toe shoes. They must've cost a fortune. I let out a sincere snicker, and he gives me a sort of sad grin.

"She would've found them hilarious. Especially since you're this popular jock and everything."

"I know," he agrees, shifting from one foot to the other. We're late for class, we know it, but still, we just stand there for a moment, looking at each other. Maybe it's better that we're late.

"Let me know if Michael Newton or any other asshole finds a problem with your choice of footwear."

"I'll kick him in the balls with my sparkly chicken slippers if he does."

"I just don't want to miss all the fun." He pauses. "And you look pretty, by the way. Mom would've loved your outfit."

"Likewise."

We start toward the classrooms, not really in a hurry, and he gives me a sad smile in front of his classroom door. "So we'll need a battle strategy."

"Battle strategy?" I repeat.

"If you, uh, you know, at one point feel like you can't—you know—be around others in class," he starts, and I blink furiously. He continues, "You can always tell them something about me, like your brother hurt himself or beat someone up or… you know."

"Why?"

"I know the teachers would excuse us either way, but I know you don't really like to appear weak, so you'll have a valid excuse for leaving the classroom at random."

It's official. My brother is amazing.

"Wow. Thanks."

"Anytime," he replies and tenderly ruffles my short hair. "So I'll see you at lunch?"

"Definitely."

It's like a curse, the way I always unintentionally interrupt only John Newton's class. I have him on Mondays, the first lesson, on Wednesday, the sixth lesson, and on Thursdays. I take a deep breath in front of 122, grasp the doorknob and enter. Tanya is writing something on the blackboard, but stops as the door closes. Eyes land on me. Eyes wander on my outfit, my slippers, my hair, my earrings. I hadn't fully realized how much different I'll feel to them now, but who cares.

I sense déjà vu.

"Glad that you could join us, Miss Swan," the teacher says, observing the change in me just like the others. But he's cordial. He's nice. Not arrogant at all. "And please take a seat next to Eric. We're working in pairs."

My eyes snap to Edward's, and the seat next to him has books on it, but no occupant. I recognize the back bag, and it's Tanya's. My eyes lock with Edward's for the briefest of moments and I feel so guilty for not properly contacting him I look away. I've felt so much bafflement and exhaustion during the past week. So now it's guilt. Gnawing at me. Wrapping around me. Why couldn't I have been more persistent in trying to contact mom? I could've called every single day. I could've written so many letters. I could've visited with the money I gathered for my university interview. I could've done so many things.

Fuck.

My eyes shimmer of tears as I slide myself next to Eric. He politely explains what we're doing and I help him half-heartedly. He agrees to go to the blackboard, and I'm glad because it's so much more difficult to be around everyone than I thought. I'd snap the chalk in two, run out and slam the door.

I slide my essay on the teacher's desk before leaving. I know he told me it didn't matter, but it was writing the essay or crying until I dehydrated and lost my voice. So I wrote an elaborate essay about Napoleon's life. It had to be three pages. I wrote nine. He can flunk me if he wants. I don't care.

I press my lips together and exit the classroom. I feel eyes at the back of my head. It bothers me more than it should. I just want to be alone. No pity, no communication, nothing.

Just when I turn to head in the direction of 107, Math, someone wraps an arm around my shoulder and ruffles my hair. I already know it's Edward. He doesn't say anything until we reach the end of the corridor with less people around. Once there, he puts his hands on both of my shoulders and looks at me. Really looks at me.

"How are you?" he asks, careful. "What happened?"

I gulp. I didn't realize he still didn't know. Does that mean no-one knows and the looks I get are purely because of the way I look? I'm not sure whether I feel relieved or anxious.

I do, however, feel like I can't talk about this with Edward without bursting into tears.

"It's, uh. We were in—in Arizona. The, ah, the funeral was on Fri—Friday morning."

I was right. The tears are immediate. Not a drop during funerals, but talking to Edward, and I'm dehydrating through the eyes.

He immediately engulfs me into a crushing hug, and I'm weeping. It's the first time I've had to deliver the news to someone, and it's so difficult to keep myself from crying. My throat is tight again. It annoys me.

"Do—doesn't, uh, anybody know?"

"No—Peter's been really tight-lipped about you. Everyone in Drama kept asking. Apparently it's the first time you've missed Drama in years."

I hum. I'm glad I'll receive no pitying looks, per se, but having to deliver the news myself… that's like breaking my heart each time I let the words out. It'll be too difficult to tolerate.

"I—I'm so, so sorry, Edward. I—I didn't, uh, mean to—to ignore you, or anything."

"Don't apologize," he replies. "Do you want me to tell everyone myself?"

"If you—if they ask."

"Okay."

He's being so nice to me, and I cry harder. I'm making his grey cardigan wet. He sort of leans against the window sill and lets me get it all out. I am honestly glad he's such a touchy-feely friend because I'd die if I had to cry at school without having his chest next to mine. He's so comforting. So heart-warming.

I can only imagine what the by-passers are thinking.

"Would you like to go home? I'm sure they'd dismiss you. I'm sure the teachers, at least, know."

"No."

"Bella, you're in no condition to think about Napoleon or Algebra or whatnot."

"No, I just—I'll break apart at home. Here I have a reason for pulling myself together."

"Did you at least sleep okay?"

I shake my head. I haven't slept properly for almost a week. Less than three hours a night.

He holds me tighter. "Shit. I'm so sorry, Bella. You can sleep at my place tonight if you want to. We could watch a movie and sleep in the living room and act all kinds of silly. Distract you."

"Thanks," I say, with a hint of a smile (I hope) which he doesn't see anyway. "That—that sounds pretty cool."

He stays that way for a while, just holding me until my sobs die out. How come I can be completely alright when I'm alone and a weeping mess around him? I strive to be a strong, independent woman, but enter Edward after a funeral, and I'm beat.

Or maybe I shouldn't beat myself up so much. I don't know. I don't know anything lately.

"And by the way, this hairdo looks really chic on you. Kind of edgy. It suits you."

"Thanks, Edward. I'll just tell Emmett one of his theories isn't bullet-proof."

"Theories? What're you talking about?"

I just shake my head.

"Hey, Bella—you okay?"

It's Emmett, and he's really quiet, like I could be asleep. Edward releases me a little, but leaves a comforting hand around me.

"Yeah," I answer, my voice hoarse from crying. I sniff. "Just a—a bad moment."

He nods, and the bell rings. Edward gives me one final brief hug before making sure I know I'll see him during next break.

For the first time in my life, Emmett and I sit together in Math.

It's an odd day. People give me looks. In corridors. In the classroom. In the bathroom. I notice. But I don't care if they're wary of my new 'do. I don't care if they think my legs are too wiry for this dress. I don't care if my shoes are ridiculous. That's kind of the point, actually.

In gym, I fiddle with my T-shirt, wondering if I have the guts to walk up to Mr. Black and say what I want to say. I never have a problem, I know, but this time, I'm afraid I'll start to cry, and I will never agree to cry in front of my classmates. Not willingly. Not without Edward to make it look like it's okay to cry in public.

But I approach him. The minute his eyes lock with mine, I'm aware he knows. His dad is friends with mine. He knows.

"Miss Swan," he starts. "I heard. I know this doesn't mean much, but I'm really sorry about what happened to your mother."

I nod, pursing my lips in a line for a moment. "Thank you. But I was kind of wondering if I could ask you a bit of a favor, Mr. Black."

"Anything. What can I help you with?"

"I know you have your schedule, but could you please make today's PE really tough? Like physically demanding? Tiring. I want to crawl out of this place in muscle pain and exhaustion."

For almost ten seconds, he simply stares at me, and I'm almost entirely sure he's trying to find a way to refuse. But he doesn't.

"You're just full of surprises, Miss Swan," he says, still staring at me. "Alright."

He doesn't ask why, but I don't think he needs to.

"So you'll do it?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Mr. Black. I really appreciate it."

He gives me our signature curt nod, and delivers. It's a PE class so tiring and demanding that I almost regret asking, but I know I'll be beyond grateful as I'm trying to fall asleep. And when other girls groan about the newfound sadistic tendencies of our usually amiable coach, I stretch and feel a silent thrill.

I will finally be able to sleep. I'm sure of it.

For the first time in my life, I don't utter a single syllable in Drama. I just watch the others work. Peter seems incredibly worried, but he's too polite to force me to act (or sing, in this case). Edward checks up on me occasionally, but other than that, I sit and observe. He sings with the others, but his voice really stands out. It's incredible. I will definitely convince him to apply for Julliard.

It's almost half to eight when I finish packing my stuff. Dad is home, and I tell him I'm headed to Edward's place and I'll be spending the night. I'm not really asking. But dad doesn't seem to mind, he just hugs me and tells me to be safe. Emmett, apparently, is with his friends as well.

If seeing Edward at school was any indication, seeing his parents would tear me apart. They're just so sincere. So I'm silently crying when they finish offering their condolences, and Edward wraps me in his arms again. There's so much comfort in him.

I don't know what I was expecting of Edward's house, but that wasn't it. Edward's house is smaller than ours, with only one story, and it's incredibly homey with wooden walls and paintings of scenery and Christmas decorations. It's quite small and modest but beautiful.

We end up laying on a pull-out couch, watching _Pineapple Express_, eating sweet potatoes with chicken and drinking tea. I've seen the movie already, and though I'm not a huge fan of Seth Rogan, I am a fan of James Franco. But I stop watching the movie as I realize a fault I've made in my self-absorption.

"Edward! Your try-out for the team! How'd it go?"

As startled as he is by my interruption, he grins. "I made Newton very silent and so very green."

"So you got in? That's amazing, Edward, why didn't you tell me?"

"It was just..." He shrugs. "Not a good time, I guess."

"You mean it's kind of awkward to be happy when I'm a weeping mess."

"I didn't say that. But it would've been kind of insensitive of me, don't you think?"

I push his shoulder, but I'm smiling. "You're such a gentleman."

He grins, and even though it's a little sad, it makes my stomach flutter.

: :

I awake to the sound of clock's ticking from the corridor. The strange sounds of a house I'm not used to, I guess. I can see fat snowflakes swinging slowly toward the ground from the window, with pinkish urban light illuminating them. It's pretty. I absently gaze at the sheer beauty of it for a long time. It must be very, very early in the morning, but I can't be sure. I'm on my back with Edward nearly crushing half of my shoulder. He's snuggled against me to either keep us warm or just because he's a snuggler. Because he is. I can feel his breath on my ear, making my now short hair flutter.

I don't wake up because of a nightmare. I haven't been asleep long enough for REM sleep to begin. But it makes such a difference to have Edward next to me. I haven't slept for even four hours in a row, not since what happened to mom. But I'm pretty sure today I have.

I don't cry. I've cried myself empty and I've cried myself exhausted. It doesn't help. So I don't cry today morning. I'm not saying I won't anymore, because that would be a lie. I'm sure I will. It will take time for me to find a sort of, I don't know, emotional balance. Nothing else but time.

So perhaps it was the fact that I felt so comforted by him. I don't think he likes me or anything—I'm not delusional, don't worry—but at that moment, it feels so right to be here with him. His mouth is agape ever so slightly, his hair is a mess, and his eyelashes are really long. How come guys have the longest lashes? Unfair. So I don't know if I'm just in such a vulnerable state, or if I want to feel anything but this gripping hurt. I don't know.

But I'm not making excuses. It happened. I don't know what possesses me to do it, but I turn my head completely towards his, and feel his breath on my mouth. My stomach is in knots. I gently slide my left hand behind his neck and press my lips to his. Just for a few seconds. It's warm and moist and completely innocent. I quickly pull away, holding my breath and silently waiting for his reaction. Praying that I didn't wake him up. A side of his mouth twitches, he sighs, and strengthens his arm around me.

Nothing else happens, and even though I realize my left hand is now trapped behind his neck, I'm relieved. I'm startled by my forwardness and I feel incredibly guilty. I hope to God he never—ever—finds out I stole my first kiss from him. I'd die.

For the next hours of the dim morning, I watch those pretty and fat snowflakes make their way towards the ground.


	9. I'm Afraid I Like You

"It is easy to overlook this thought that life just is. As humans we are inclined to feel that life must have a point. We have plans and aspirations and desires. We want to take constant advantage of the intoxicating existence we've been endowed with. But what's life to a lichen? Yet its impulse to exist, to be, is every bit as strong as ours—arguably even stronger. If I were told that I had to spend decades being a furry growth on a rock in the woods, I believe I would lose the will to go on. Lichens don't. Like virtually all living things, they will suffer any hardship, endure any insult, for a moment's additions existence. Life, in short, just wants to be." ― Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_

: :

_Thursday, the 16__th__ of December  
07:53 PM. Meh. Just, you know, meh.  
_

I open my eyes to see my fist clenched around wet part of Edward's T-shirt, my left arm still around Edward's neck and my head perched under his arm. His arm is wrapped around my waist. My face is damp. I push myself away from Edward, but he shushes me in a way that's so tender and nonjudgmental I stop struggling.

"It's okay. It was just a dream. Just a dream."

I let out a weak laugh. "I'm so sorry. I slobbered all over you."

"I think my shirt can take it."

I avoid his eyes as I wipe my face into the blanket. "How very heroic."

"Is everything alright?" Edward's dad asks from the doorway.

I attempt to shy away from Edward, but he won't let me.

"Yeah. Bella just had a nightmare. Everything's fine."

"You okay, Bella?"

I gather my guts to glance at Edward's dad. I clear my throat. "I'm, uh, fine. Just give me a minute while I suffocate myself on your couch and never show my face again."

I slide under the blanket.

"Edward, how come your family is never embarrassed?"

"I literally couldn't decipher a single word you just said," he replies, throwing the blanket off of my face. "Why didn't you mention you had nightmares?"

"I don't."

Skeptical, he asks, "And you screamed 'please' at five AM just because you were on a sunny beach and you wanted to catch those butterflies you saw?"

"Er, totally," I reply. "No, really, Edward. This is the first time in, like, ten years for me to have a bad dream. Honestly. Now, tell me, how come you and your dad are so casual about embarrassment?"

"What?"

"Why is your family never embarrassed? Seriously. I scream loud enough for you all to wake up at ungodly hours, your dad arrives in his pajamas to check up on us, and he doesn't even look remotely fazed by our proximity. If my dad caught us together like this, like if he were actually home last Thursday, innocent or not, you would be—er, never mind."

"Tortured in unmentionable ways and thrown in jail? I know."

"So how come your dad's so cool about it?"

"He—trusts me." Edward yawns. "They know nothing's about to happen. And we've survived—er, quite embarrassing situations, you could say. Maybe it's toughened our perspective."

"Did he walk in on you having sex or something?"

He laughs, but the tips of his ears redden. "It would be a lot simpler to make my brain work at five AM if you weren't at the same level with my crotch."

I don't think I've ever turned from remotely pale to beetroot purple so quickly. I rest my head on the pillow. "Sorry."

Thanks, wittiness, for failing me when I most need you. Jerk.

He laughs and pulls the blanket back on us. We lie next to each other.

"To answer your question—no. It was the other way around… a few times."

"Ah, gee. Sorry. Lifetime of therapy waiting to happen, huh?"

"And then my both my dad and mom have respectively walked in on—" he stops, probably reaching his limit of embarrassment for a conversation. "Er, you know."

Frankly, I'm surprised he _has_ a limit of embarrassment.

"Masturbating, huh?"

If Edward's face were capable of flushing in its entirety, this would be his moment, and so, I'm wondering how the heck a girl like me manages to be so forward. Really. So I flush from head to toe, and I feel really awkward.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Edward, I'm such a moron I—"

"It's fine," he says through embarrassment, even smiling a little. "I'm just not used to talking about this, I guess. But it's perfectly natu—"

"There you go again, Edward! Normal people pretend they never said anything, and not manage to _talk_ about it afterwards like it's no big deal."

"But it isn't, I mean—"

"Shh! Seriously, have you ever thought about becoming a doctor? 'cause you could talk about unmentionably embarrassing diseases or make the patient think it's perfectly acceptable to go around telling people you have an iPod up your butt."

He lets out a laugh so sincere I could not help but join in.

"Thanks for the heads up, but you're absurd."

"That's hardly the point. You know, when I first met you a month or so ago, I thought you were pretty awkward, but really, you're only awkward in simple situations—when it comes down to the world of super-awkward awkwardness, you're cool as a cucumber. However, when you get yourself a girlfriend, please do not start talking about your sex life to me. That's just wrong."

"I would never," he says, and his smile turns into a yawn. "Are you going to tell me what your dream was about?" A pause. "Was it, you know, your mom?"

With a simple banter at 5 AM, he's made me forget all about what happened, and I don't feel like addressing those problems yet. "Nice try. Later. Sleep now. We have at least an hour before school."

"I'll hold you to that." He scoots closer and holds out his arm for me. I lean into him, but not without thinking how odd it is to go from zero contact with a boy to making contact incredibly casual. I don't know if I will ever understand how to take proximity as self-explanatorily as he does.

"This is going to be a hell of a lot more awkward when you find yourself a girlfriend."

"Bella," he replies, already semi-asleep. "Shut up and sleep."

"I just can't figure you out."

He raises his head to look at my profile because I'm facing away from him. "Spend some time with my parents and you'll never question this again."

He falls asleep within a minute, and even though I shut up, I don't. I've always been a somewhat easy sleeper in the morning. And I'm left wondering about a lot of things.

Edward's mom comes into the living room to turn on the electric heater. I offer her a sheepish smile that she returns. Unlike me, she doesn't look embarrassed at all, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say they're encouraging our proximity. But I'm pretty sure they want us in the living room for that exact reason, so that nothing happens that shouldn't. So that they can keep an eye on us.

It's 05:43 AM at that point. I don't want to skip jogging just because I'm visiting Edward, so I attempt to crawl out from under him. But just like in the morning in one oh six, his grip only tightens. Either he's freezing or he needs the assurance of me being there. It's really cute.

Except my bladder might explode.

Esme returns to the room with an armful of woolen blankets, and sees my struggle. She chuckles.

"Has he always been like this?" I whisper, struggling not to wake Edward up (again) in my attempt to break free from his arms.

"When he was a little boy, yes," she answers, smiling. "I didn't know he's still like that."

"What do I do?"

"I know." She takes a pillow from an armchair, gives it to me and motions at his arms. I put the pillow in between us and under his arm, and suddenly, it's much easier to slide out from under him. He immediately grips it.

"That's pretty damn cute," Esme says.

I change in the bathroom, and am relieved to see that both Edward's parents are in the kitchen, Edward's mom is now reading a newspaper and his father is frying eggs. It's oddly in reverse to what I deem common, but I like it. I'm not too eager to slip into gender roles if I were to ever marry someone. I wouldn't make a typical housewife at all. Seeing this gives me hope.

"Good morning," I say. They raise their eyes. "I just—I'm going to go for a jog, could you leave the door open for me?"

"Of course," Edward's dad says as if me jogging is the most natural thing in the world. "Esme will be gone in a half an hour, but Edward and I will be here."

"Thanks, er—" I can't remember his name. I can't believe I can't remember his name.

"Carlisle."

"Ah, sorry."

"No problem. Happens all the time."

They're both really concerned about me jogging with the snow, but I shrug off their concern. I can't have an excuse not to jog. So I still head outside, and it's actually kind of warm. Pretty snowflakes find their way towards the ground, yes, but there's not a blanket of snow. It melts as soon as it hits the ground.

By the time I get back, Esme is gone, and Edward's dad—whatever his name was—is the one reading the newspaper. I have a quick shower, and put on my white dress. I wake Edward up, or try to, anyway. I'm not surprised that the other day, he only woke up, like, five seconds after Emmett had jumped on him. He sleeps like the dead.

Like the dead, I tell you. Even shaking his shoulder doesn't make him blink. I wonder how loud I had to scream for him to wake up because nothing else seems to work.

So I get a good grip on the pillow and tear it from his arms. The reaction is immediate. He starts to search for it, blinks, and focuses his eyes on me. Already dressed.

He sits up. "Are we late?"

"Nope," I answer. "Just thought you'd like some breakfast."

He falls back on the pillows. "Just give me, like, five minutes." He closes his eyes. He's asleep.

Not a morning person, I suppose. I feel really bad about waking him up earlier, so I don't bug him again. I find a place around the kitchen table, and Edward's dad glances up at me before assuring I should make myself feel at home and eat whatever I want. He doesn't have to tell me twice because before I know it, I'm shoveling as much onto my place as I can without feeling impolite.

"So, your dream," he says, and I glance up at him. "Is it recurring? Do you see nightmares often?"

"No, sir."

I am just going to opt for that because hell if I actually remembered his name.

"Do you feel like talking about what happened would make it easier for you?"

"I—I don't know. Like a professional?"

"Yes."

"I—maybe not. I can talk to Edward and Emmett."

He stares at me for what feels like a long time before nodding. "Esme is really worried about you. So if your dad and brother are not at home, you must know you can stay at our place any time. Or even if they are."

"Thank you."

"And here—take my card, so that if you have any problems at all, you can call me," he adds, giving me a business card. He places a hand on my shoulder. "I've seen Esme lose both of her parents, Bella. It is not easy."

I nod, pursing my lips in a line. Edward couldn't have gotten better parents if he chose them himself.

Speaking of Edward, he strolls in when I'm having a second helping of… well, everything. His dad sort of, I don't know, lights up when his son enters, and they hug.

I pinch myself. No, really, like a real pinch, one that hurts.

I have never been given a good morning hug. Well, that is, until now, because Edward hugs me, too.

Okay, this family is slightly odd. Or maybe it's my family that's odd. Either way, I'm starting to get a hint of why Edward can't understand my bafflement concerning human proximity when it's so casual for him.

"You're giving Edward a run for the money, Bella."

I look up. Edward's dad motions at my plate and then at Edward's. It's full. So is mine.

"Yeah, but don't worry, after I'm done eating the contents of your fridge and still feel hungry, I will no longer be opposed to cannibalism."

Carlisle laughs. Edward beams and throws half an omelet into his mouth. "Don' wowwy, mo's goi' to—"

"What he's trying to say in such gentlemanly manner is that we don't mind. Once my wife finds out about this, she'll start baking food for an army. Even if she is particular about her own food. So I'm relieved to see a girl eat."

"Oh, no problem. I'm always hungry."

: :

"So… what was your dream about?"

We walk to the school because it's pointless to drive only a few blocks.

"It was kind of an exaggerated version of what would happen if I didn't exist."

"And what would happen?" he asks, teasing. "Did the world cease to exist without you?"

"Of course." I smile. "But really, it was pretty bad. None of it would actually happen if I weren't here. Like my dad was an unemployed alcoholic, Emmett was best friends with Michael Newton, Emmett didn't graduate high school and had a pregnant girlfriend. And you—you were on an entirely another level of fucked up."

"What? What did I do?"

"You were a womanizer of a drug dealer who, along with Michael and Emmett, helped torture Eric and force him to take heroin."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah. And then you insulted me in ways I hope would never even occur to you."

"What did I say?"

"You—er, you said… something pretty harsh and then compared me to Cathy Bates."

"Who?"

"Cathy Bates, you know? Won an Oscar for her role in _Misery_? That Stephen King's novel?"

"Never heard of her."

"You've never seen _Misery_? _Fried Green Tomatoes_? _About Schmidt_? _Titanic_?"

He shakes his head.

"Now you're lying. You must've seen _Titanic_."

"Never seen it."

"Are you serious?"

He nods.

"Oh, wow."

"What?"

"I think you're the first person I've met who's never seen that movie," I reply. "So that gap in your knowledge of movies is to be filled."

He's amused. "What—you're going to tie me to a chair and force me to watch every single chick flick ever made?"

"That's insulting," I answer. "Only the good ones."

He chuckles, and we enter the schoolhouse. Quite a lot of people greet Edward, and I receive careful, furtive glances from said people (nothing to do with my "status" at school and probably everything to do with the situation Emmett and I find ourselves in). While I was away, Edward seems to have made lots of friends, and I can't say I didn't see it coming. There's something about Edward that puts people at ease. He has this relaxed way of interacting and joking with random people, and seems to make everyone feel special.

Including me. But I'm not the only one.

But he's also distracted me from thinking of issues that would otherwise occupy my every thought, and I'm really grateful about that.

I clear my throat at the lockers. "Hey Edward?"

He stops taking today's notebooks from his locker, looks at me, frowns and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Yeah?"

Is this really necessary, Edward? I wonder if he actually realizes how much casual contact he initiates. If he were dealing with a girl who wasn't me, it would be the easiest thing in the world to think he's leading me on. But he's not. It's just him.

"I, er, was just wondering if you could tag along today, too?"

He laughs out loud, and by-passers give us curious looks.

"That's how you think of our friendship?" He grins. "Me just _tagging_ _along_? Ouch."

"No, I mean—" I huff and I blush. Whatever happened to me not blushing about non-sexual comments? Jesus, all I do is blush. It's embarrassing. "I mean you've found an army of friends while I was away, but you really helped me yesterday, you know? So I was wondering if you could distract me today as well."

He shakes his head, shoving his locker closed, and turns to me. "You're so absurd."

"So you'll do it?"

"Bella," he says. "You don't need to ask. I'm here, see? I'm right here. And I don't see what the hell you're talking about, I have no any _army_ of friends. I mean, where are they?" He looks around, and a few people wave at him and say hi.

Well, I can. They're everywhere. It's like a popularity contest I never knew about, and Edward—oblivious as ever—seems to be the winner. It's not that I mind, not at all, it's just that he's best at making me feel like I still deserve to be treated like a normal person after what happened.

"I'm here, see?" he asks again, and he seems to be pretty adamant about making me see whatever point he's making. He taps Angela—who passes us—on her shoulder and makes sure he's got her attention before motioning at his feet.

"Am I here, Angela? You can see me, right? I'm right here, see?" He motions at me. "Tell Bella I'm right here."

I have never seen Angela more confused, she looks back and forth between us and lets out a hesitant, "He's right here?"

Edward pointedly locks eyes with her. "Thank you, Angela. See, Bella? I'm right here."

Angela, confused as ever, waves at me and leaves. I feel more confused than ever.

"So you're here, and I'm not seeing things."

"Bella," mock-groans Edward as we head to the second floor. "I'm saying I'm not going anywhere. So don't ask me something as ridiculous as whether or not I'm going to _tag_ _along _with you. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

To make his point clear, he stops me. We stand in the middle of the staircase much to the annoyance of by-passers. And I can't not smile at something like that. He's really sweet.

"So when you wake up one day and discover you're the king of the school and the most gorgeous smartest jock, and you get into Juilliard and stuff, we can still hang out?"

He snorts. It's loud.

"Like that's ever gonna happen," he replies, picks up the bag I let fall behind me, and briefly kisses my temple like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You really don't get it, do you? Come on, let's get to Biology."

I'm stunned. He kissed my temple. No-one's ever done that. Not even my mom. Like, yeah, my mom hugged me and stuff, but she didn't have the habit of kissing me when she tucked me to bed. Otherwise casual contact would come much more easily to me.

And, God, suddenly I'm fighting with tears behind Edward, and I pray no-one notices. I should know better, though, because when we're sitting down, Edward wants to tell me something but closes his mouth before the words get out. His face pales.

"Did I do something—? I'm so sorry, Bella—I didn't mean to—"

"It's not that, Edward," I deny. "It's just—you know," and I decide to be brutally honest. Awkward, but honest. "It's just—my mom never—" I motion at my temple and blush through my tears. "You're the first one who's ever—"

His lack of embarrassment in heavy-embarrassment inducing situations (God, that's a bad description) must've rubbed off on me, because that's a pretty embarrassing thing to admit to someone. What was I saying about doubting I was deprived of affection as a kid? Clearly, there is no doubt. I must be pretty deprived to notice such a thing.

"I didn't mean—I mean, my mom was amazing and kind and stuff, she just never had the habit, you know?" I try to cover. I didn't mean to say anything bad about my mom. My mom was pretty awesome.

Edward opens and closes his mouth several times, but he says nothing but, "So you're okay?"

I nod.

But through the entire lesson, Edward has this entirely absent-minded expression on his face, like he's at the brink of a realization. Mr. Banner calls out his name three times, and even when Edward finally understands his name was called, I slip my own workbook under his nose for him to acknowledge where we are. He reads the right answer from my workbook, and even though Mr. Banner is asking everyone to answer, he skips me. Not that I mind, but still.

I slip a note to Edward.

_I didn't mean to upset you._

_oh, no, I'm not upset. _

Even in his neat handwriting, he doesn't acknowledge capital letters.

_Then what is it? _

_I'm just… thinking._

_Hey—I didn't mean to give you any ideas or anything, I'm sorry if it sounded like I was._

He looks up from the note, and I swear, his face is conflicted. It's _conflicted_, which means I must've hit a sore spot, and he's thinking how his meaningless actions mean more to me than to him and it's too easy for me to misinterpret his casualness. Oh, God. Is this going to change the dynamics of our friendship? Is he going to, I don't know, keep himself from hugging me and stuff? Jesus, if one little admittance did that, I should just… keep quiet so that I wouldn't harm our friendship.

The moment the bell rings, Edward does just what I meant to do—he pulls me aside in the corridor.

"Hey, I can see you're over-analyzing. You didn't do anything wrong, okay? Thanks for being honest with me." He ruffles my hair and throws a hand across my shoulders. I'm so relieved. Everything's okay.

When Edward isn't sharing a class with me, the day drags like ox's saliva. It is incredible how careful people are with me. Yeah, I get it. I wouldn't know how the hell to act, either. But everyone except Edward is treating me like I'm a porcelain doll sitting on a doorknob of a particularly creaking door. The moment you breathe, it creaks.

The weird part is, I am convinced that if I were to break down at a random moment, any moment, Edward would be the one I'd want to have next to me. And he's the only one _not_ behaving like I'm about to scream and cry in the same sentence. If I were to do so, though, he'd be the one to know what the hell to do with me.

My math teacher, Mrs. Fisher? She doesn't ask me a single question (or Emmett). She always asks me at least once during the lesson. Mr. Banner? In the middle of our note-sharing, he starts stuttering and is embarrassed because he mentioned death by natural causes versus death by "unnatural" causes in ontogenesis. His stammering gets worse when he introduces us to apoptosis.

Yeah, I get it. The word is out that my mom is no longer with us.

She didn't die of apoptosis, though.

Jessica? Lauren? Tanya? They seem to have a mutual agreement not to look me in the eye. They're super nice, so extremely nice it makes me uncomfortable.

Nobody laughs at my jokes.

But that's because I haven't cracked a single joke. Not at school. I don't know. I just don't feel like even making fun of myself. Like, yeah, I'm not a looker. So what? I'm alive. People uglier than me have found a partner for life. Why did I ever give a shit? And so what if I go through life without ever finding anyone? Worse things have happened.

Before lunch, Lauren sneaks up on me and walks into the cafeteria with me, motioning at Edward with her head. She's not very subtle. So I say I'd catch up with Edward later, and stay behind. Lauren, as per usual, gets straight to business. I think I really appreciate that about her.

"So. Tanya told me not to tell you anything, especially now, but I think if anything were to happen, she'd need to know you were okay with it. So she's really into Edward. Like, seriously."

I feel like a door.

No, really. I feel like a giant fucking door. There's people going in, there's people going out, information going in, information going out, and there's a door, and even though everyone knows it's there, nobody really notices it. I mean, you only notice a door when there's something wrong with it, right? So there's my mind on the one side of the door, external forces like Lauren on the other side, and I'm a door.

I really suck at metaphors, don't I? I'll just drop that thought.

So basically, I know what she's saying, but I'm so utterly confused by my reaction that I refuse to acknowledge what she just told me.

"I'm sorry?"

"Tanya really likes Edward, but she isn't sure if you like him, _like_ _him_, too. And she wouldn't try anything if you did, but I'm pretty sure you don't, so I'd like to clarify that for her and make her stop talking about him all the fucking time. So could you drop in a few good words for her? She'd really appreciate it."

Huh.

I manage a quiet snort and a burst of laughter so real I even fool myself, because right now, after last night, I'm pretty sure I've gone from not acknowledging to full blown acknowledging. You know what I mean, and this time, Emmett, what I mean and what you think I mean coincide. Yes, I mean what you think I mean when I say you know what I mean.

Who woulda thought, huh?

"Sure. And Lauren, there's nothing going on between me and him."

"Nothing going on between you and who?" a voice asks behind me, and I recoil. So does Lauren, apparently.

"My imaginary friend Bill."

Edward stares at me, just observing with the slightest of frowns, and admits he left his wallet at home so he would need to borrow some money from me. I give him some. He gives me a long look that I can't decipher before he slips into his place in the line again and continues his talk with Laurent and Tyler.

Lauren smiles at me, and she really locks eyes with me—finally. "Thanks! You're super. And Bella—we're really sorry about what happened to your mom." She just looks at me for a moment. I nod, and the moment she's gone, Angela replaces her.

She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. "We never talk anymore."

I purse my lips in a line. I haven't meant to ignore her, I really haven't, but I've had so much drama going on it's just… I didn't mean to. Angela is such a lovely, down-to-earth girl, and we used to have silly sleepovers. It's been a while since we talked outside of school and cafeteria.

"I'm sorry, Angela."

"No, no—I didn't mean like it's your fault or anything. I mean, I miss you."

She get this sad smile on her face and just envelops me in a hug. I hold on.

"And I know words mean nothing, but I'm here if you need anything, okay? But I can see Edward is _right_ _here_ as well, and I'm—I'm glad you have someone."

"Thanks. He's a great friend."

She steps back and takes a breath. "So, I'm going to tell Ben tonight."

Say what?

"Really?"

"Well, no. But I'm going to more like show him, you know? So that if he's really not into me, I can say it was a fluke and I just got caught up in the moment and everything will still be okay."

I imagine how that would go with Edward. Ah, I'm so sorry for kissing you, Edward, you just had some chocolate on your lips and I just thought I'd lick it off. For a whole minute. There was just so much chocolate, you know?

"I'm surprised you haven't attacked each other at school, to be honest."

"I'm surprised I haven't attacked him, either." She giggles. "I've felt everything's too complex to put myself out there for so long. Friendships with boys can be so complicated." She sighs. "It's kind of like you and Edward, really. Except you don't like him."

"Right."

But I'm starting to think—is it? Everyone seems to believe so. Not one person in my circle of friends—except for Tanya, but that was her own interest in Edward speaking—genuinely believes Edward and I have something. Is that because I'm a better actress than I give myself credit for? Does Edward have to constantly refute claims about us? Or do we simply look like the unlikeliest people to ever discover soul mates in each other?

And no, I am not going to add my appearance to the equation. I always hide behind what I think of myself. Enough of that. It's exactly how Edward told me—why do I think it doesn't matter at all in everyone else's case and in my case, it's the end of the world? Why do I do that? Do I see some connection between the level of affection and attraction because of what my mom emphasized in her life? Do I feel like I'm unworthy of affection because I see myself lacking in appearance?

I don't think I'm ready to answer that question. But at least I see the problem, and I refuse to continue being such a hypocrite. If I believe it doesn't matter, why do I make it matter in my own case?

Whatever I feel for Edward or whatever I'm ready for or whatever I'm ready to put out there, at any point in our friendship, I'm not allowed to hide behind my appearance. It's time for a change.

I glance over at our table—Emmett is sitting with Edward and the others—and I see Tanya sitting next to Edward. She looks happy. For the first time in my life (I've had a lot of firsts lately, huh?) I feel an unreasonable pang of jealousy. For a minute, I just watch them. And the thing is, I wish I could hate Tanya for being in his league or for being so darn nice. She's so lovely all the time, and if anyone would be good for him, it's her.

Edward makes some joke, the table laughs, and so does Tanya. She then leans over to tell him something. He smiles politely, but turns back to Emmett and the table laughs again. This continues. She tells him something, and he's very polite, but I'm pretty shocked to realize he doesn't like her. He's polite. He laughs. But he doesn't lean over or find reasons to touch her or anything.

Or is that how he behaves if he does like someone? Afraid that every touch suddenly means something and unsure as to whether it's reciprocated?

I'm so confused.

Edward is right. I think too much.

In my fascination with this new knowledge, I failed to notice my beloved Michael Newton & Co. sneaking up on me. They were surreptitious enough to go fairly unnoticed, so nobody's eyes are deliberately on us. I look over to the teacher's table, and yes, only Mr. Black has noticed. He nods at me. I nod back.

"You know, what I really don't get is that you hadn't seen your mom—for what—seven years? So it's not like you're really grieving or anything since she was already out of your life. So why do you bother?"

Fuck you. I just… fuck. How does he even _know_ this stuff? He knows exactly which strings to pull, and this time, it just fills me with so much fucking ire just looking at his semi-smirking face.

You know, I really don't get it when I read a romance novel where the author writes about a smirk as if it's some sexy thing the protagonist should fawn over. A smirk is an offensive, arrogant smile, and fuck it, Michael Newton wears it well. By which, I of course mean that I don't think he's even capable of a genuine smile. Not around me, at least. I hope.

But what really pisses me off is that Michael Newton has just voiced a thought that, at a very low point during one night, occurred to me, too. Not the part about why I should bother, but the fact that she was already out of my life for so long, so why do I feel so fucking grief-stricken?

The reason is obvious, of course. I loved her. I still do.

And why does Michael Newton still bother? What satisfaction does he get out of insulting me? I'm genuinely curious, does he get anything out of it? Why should he bother?

I step closer to him. I don't think I've ever willingly stepped closer to him, I mostly just ran when I could. But I really need this to fucking stop before I murder him for what he did. I step so close he gets uncomfortable, but he does not seem to be looking for attention right now, so he doesn't move.

"You know, Michael? Fuck you."

His smirk widens. "That all you've got to say?"

I raise myself on my tiptoes to be closer to his ear, but I look elsewhere. "Remember that day three years ago? Yeah? You do? Well, of course, how could you forget. Remember how I had that bag, that really ugly one you tormented me about always with me? Guess what was in it?"

He stays quiet, but I can sense I've got his attention, and I'm glad, because I'm bluffing the heck out of this story.

I hum. "Yes. A camera. I have the entire thing on a tape. If you ever fucking harass me again, verbally or physically, it's going to my dad."

"You're bluffing," he whispers, but it's quite shaky, and I know he believes me. "And that tape would show you in a bad light, don't you think?"

I let out a laugh, it's quite creepy and humorless. "And a fourteen year old girl _willingly_ does such a thing. They will think I _wanted_ to."

And he knows. He knows that if such a tape existed, Michael Newton & Co. would be facing a court case, a court case which would be quite impossible for them to win.

Eyes are on us now, quite a few. Michael Newton's father curiously observes his son's pale face, and I can see that Emmett is on his feet, his arm gripping Edward's shoulder, and they're both watching us like hawks. I avoid their eyes.

"And that tape is your adios to any college that might want your sorry ass." I pause. "So any word of any student you're harassing, and this tape is out, got it?"

He nods. Two of his little hanger-ons watch him curiously before they all leave, and I let out a breath. I'm shaking. The lady behind the counter is waiting for me, and the people in the line are impatient. I don't order anything. Instead, I walk over to the teacher's table. Eyes are now definitely on me.

"Mr. Black? Can I have a word?"

He frowns, and Peter—who sits next to him—asks, "Did anything happen?"

"Mr. Black, I need to speak with you."

"Miss Swan, could this—"

"It's either this or I go and smash Michael Newton's nose into the back of his skull," I reply hastily. "Please. I'm sorry, but please. Right now. Before I do something stupid."

"Okay." He gets up, and together, we walk out of the cafeteria. I mouth 'I'll be right there' to Edward, and even though he looks pretty anxious (as does my brother), he nods.

The corridor is almost empty.

I stare at my gym teacher and take a breath. "Would it be possible for a woman to beat Michael Newton's time at Seattle Summer Marathon?"

He doesn't laugh. I appreciate it so much. If I wasn't so angry right now, I'd offer a smile for his belief in me.

"You'll need to train a hell of a lot for even considering—"

"I'm not asking if you think _I_ can do it. What's women's world record in running a marathon?"

"It's two hours and sixteen minutes, or something. I'm not sure."

"What's Michael's best time?"

"Two hours and twenty eight minutes."

"So it's possible."

"Yes, but it takes a hell of a lot of hard work."

"I'm not afraid of hard work. I'll do whatever you need me to do to achieve a better time than that. I'll run night and day if I need to. I'll be in the gym any spare minute I have if you want me to."

"First you'll need to gain weight."

"Already working on it."

He glances at my white-clothed self before settling on my face, assessing me. I don't move an inch. He's not much taller than I am, but he's muscled and tanned. His hair is in a perpetual pony tail, kind of like mine used to be in a perpetual braid. For almost a minute, we just stand without saying anything. Finally, he comments.

"This is really important to you."

"Yes."

"And you want me to help you."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're probably the only coach who isn't going to jeer at me. I know I've never been particularly athletic. But I want to improve. I want to be better. I want to beat him. If you need me to pay for your help I'll find a way."

"That's not necessary."

"So you'll do it?"

"I'll do it."

I let out a breath. "Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"I've tried to beat him for three years, so don't think that you're looking at a walk in a park. My personal record is two hours and thirty nine minutes, and it was definitely not an easy jog."

"I'll do whatever it takes."


	10. US Marshals—Wait, What?

"When the poet Paul Valery once asked Albert Einstein if he kept a notebook to record his ideas, Einstein looked at him with mild but genuine surprise. "Oh, that's not necessary," he replied. "It's so seldom I have one."  
― Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_

: :

On Tuesday, I arrive home at around dusk. I agreed to play corona with Emmett, Jasper and Edward, and they were supposed to order take-out and be here at around half to six. But the moment I step in the house, I hear a resounding crash from outside and a roar from upstairs. I drop the bags and open the front door.

The only recognizable piece of junk on our driveway is the computer's casing. A second later, a flying monitor fixes that.

Emmett threw our computer out of the window.

I run upstairs and I stop at Emmett's doorway to find him busting up his room. He's smashed a picture frame against the wall and overthrown his table. After kicking one of his two glass trophies against the wall—it shatters—Emmett lets out a shout and sits on his bed. He rests his head on his hands. His shoulders shake.

I have never in my life seen Emmett so furious. Heartbreaking, but furious.

But how do I help him? He's pretty big. I'm not concerned he'd hurt me, I know he wouldn't. But I can't really stop him from busting up our entire house if he felt so inclined.

He locks eyes with me. His eyes are brimming with tears, and he immediately looks away.

What brought this on?

"Let's go out."

Clearly still fighting with his emotions, Emmett clenches and unclenches his fists. He clears his throat, not looking at me. "Where?"

"Running."

"You don't run."

"I do. Let's go. Be dressed in five."

I turn around.

"Jasper and Edward will be over."

"I'll call them," I reply, stopping at the doorway. "Really. Let's go, okay?"

He stares at me before giving me the briefest of nods, and I know I have him. I change clothes, put groceries in the fridge and leave dad a short note about our whereabouts. Just when I've dialed Edward's number, the doorbell rings.

"Do you know there's a smashed computer on your driveway?" Jasper asks, already holding a pizza.

"No," I deadpan. "I wonder how it got there."

"Is everything alright?" Edward asks.

"Guys. Would you mind spending some time on your own? You can watch TV or play corona in the garage or just… you've been here without us before, Jasper, right? Dad won't mind."

"What happened?"

I shrug, and Emmett puts on his shoes. His hair is damp, but he puts a hat on. So do I. He avoids eye contact with either of them, and offers a dismissive wave when he runs to the driveway to wait for me.

He's afraid he'll break down in front of them.

"Emmett and I need to go out for a while. I'm sorry we're so rude, but you guys understand, right? You don't have to go, we just need—some time outside. I have my phone with me if you need anything."

Jasper, who has probably figured out what happened (other than myself, he knows Emmett better than anyone) taps Edward's arm and they enter the house. Edward tugs at his hair, looking at me, but I shake my head.

I'll speak to him later.

Emmett and I start jogging with a slow pace.

"Just tell me when you feel tired, okay?"

I nod. It's reasonably warm, it's drizzling, and in about a half an hour, we're in a forest-y park I've never been to.

"You tired?"

I shake my head.

"You sure?"

I nod.

"I didn't know you were into running."

Neither did I.

I stay quiet. Emmett needs to be the one to initiate conversation because it's easy to overwhelm him emotionally. If I start to ask all sorts of questions, he's going to get irritated and feel like I'm prying. That's the way he deals with life. We all have our way, and that's his. He needs to feel like it's his choice. It needs to _be_ his choice.

He doesn't want words. He doesn't seem to need proximity, my hugs, whatever. That's not him. That's why, in Arizona, we didn't lock ourselves up in any of the multiple rooms in Phil's house. We had to be moving.

At the end of one straight road, Emmett hands me his stopper watch. "Time me. I'll raise my hand from the end of the road when I'm ready."

I nod. Road lighting offers enough light for me to be able to see him at the end of the road, and the park itself appears to be quite deserted.

I look down at the Michael Kors watch mom gave him for last year's Christmas. I have no idea whether this is one of those stainless-steel, high-quality watches, but it appears to be. Mom always sent us fairly pricey gifts, so I wouldn't be surprised if this Kors guy turned out to make atrociously expensive wrist wear.

I time Emmett several times, and I can tell he's starting to calm down. He no longer avoids eye contact. After he's left his lungs in the park, I return his watch and we start to jog back. No words are shared for a while. Just the sound of our footsteps. A few passing cars.

"Mom's gifts arrived," Emmett finally says. "She said she—she bought plane tickets to come and visit us on Easter.

"It's just—this entire situation is so fucked up," he continues. "She was thirty seven, Bella, _thirty_ fucking _seven _years old. That's outrageously young to die of flu. A fucking _flu_. Who dies of flu nowadays? We could've had _decades_ to get to know her again. Hell, we could've had half a fucking _century_."

There's really nothing I can say, so I don't. He doesn't need me to reciprocate. I decide it's his time to vent, scream, cry, whatever. I have Edward, and yes, he has Jasper, but he would never, ever admit to being weak around his friends. Not even Jasper. Even though Jasper is really cool like that. If anyone would understand, it would be him.

But Emmett's too proud, so that leaves me. And I understand that. So I let him vent. I mumble an agreement when needed, I reply when he expects me to, and I listen. Not before long, we're back in front of our house, and there's a new-looking BMW right next to the pile of junk that used to be our computer.

"Bella—thanks." Emmett stops me, and I look up at him. "You know me better than I give you credit for. And, uh, I'm sorry about the computer, I just—I got so fucking _angry_. But, I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"So what did you tell Michael Newton?"

I shrug. "I just bluffed a lot."

"But why did you need to talk to my coach?"

"You'll see."

Emmett smiles, and I return it. He throws a hand on my shoulder. "You've been pretty kick-ass recently, you know that?"

"Thank you." I grin. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, though."

He laughs.

Just when we walk to the porch, a fit yet elderly fair-haired man in a uniform opens the door, with dad right after him. He's tall. Dad smiles when he sees us.

"Ah! Here you are. This is my daughter Isabella and my son Emmett." We shake hands with the man. "This is Supervisory Deputy U.S. Marshal Al Stephens."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Likewise," he replies. "I look forward to working with your father." He shakes dad's hand, tips his hat and leaves with a light-hearted gait. He by-passes the pile of metal without even giving it a glance, and starts the engine. Confused, Emmett and I make faces at each other as we watch the man leave.

Dad ushers us inside. Unfolding his tie, he takes a breath. "Come on, let's talk in the living room." He sounds tired, hopeful, I don't know. I'm confused. Did he get sacked? How does anyone sack the Chief of Police?

"Should Edward and I leave?" Jasper asks.

"No, no—I'm actually glad you're here."

Emmett and I share a love seat, and dad sits in an armchair. He unbuttons his suit and looks increasingly uncomfortable.

"So, I resigned from Kirkland Police Department. I gave my resignation just before, you know. Starting from Christmas, I'll no longer be involved with any of my previous job duties."

Oh-kay.

"You might've noticed I haven't been around much lately, even before, uh—you know."

"Are you going to admit to having a girlfriend now?" Emmett asks.

"I just—" Dad starts. "What?"

"That's why you haven't been around lately. Bella and I figured it out a couple of weeks ago. We don't mind."

Dad frowns. "You thought I'd found someone?"

"Well—yeah," I reply.

"Why'd you think that?"

"Dad—you were never home at night. I doubt the Chief of Police has _that_ many night shifts."

"But I was—I was training."

"For what?"

Again, he takes a breath. "I know this is, uh, a fragile time to do this, and if you don't want me to, I won't, but a few months ago, I was accepted to U.S. Marshals Service."

Jasper, who hasn't spoken a word until now, leans forward, rests his forearms on his knees, and smiles. "You mean, like, the real deal? Like the one that's about as impossible to get in as Special Agent training? But that one—there's like—only every 20th applicant gets in there! That is fucking awesome." He leans back, rubbing his neck. "I mean, sorry for the language. But congratulations. The training's pretty tough, huh?"

Dad nods.

"So have you spoken to my parents? Edward's?"

Dad nods. The guys seem to have a mutual understanding of what was just said.

"So, er, care to explain?"

Dad sighs, again, and rests his forearms on his knees, just like Jasper did. He locks eyes with me. "The training lasts for seventeen weeks, Bella."

"Oh–kay."

"It's in a place called Glynco."

"Okay."

"Glynco is in Georgia, Bella," Emmett adds. "Like, the State of Georgia."

Dad and I make eye contact, and I can see that for some reason or another, he's fearful of my reaction.

"So when are you leaving?"

"You mean—you, Emmett, you wouldn't mind?"

"It sounds like a brilliant opportunity, dad. If it's what you want, who are we to stop you?"

"You don't think it's irresponsible of me to just leave you here like this?"

"Not really," Emmett says, shrugging. "It's not like you're leaving for forever."

"And we'd be staying with—Jasper and Edward?" I ask. "For four months?"

"If they don't mind," dad says.

"Emmett's so used to being at my place, you know that's not a problem," Jasper says. "Of course we don't mind."

Edward stares at the floor before looking up. "What? Oh, right, of course I don't mind."

Contain your enthusiasm, Edward.

Dad smiles like the world's weight has been lifted from his shoulders, and I'm excited for him. I am. But at the same time, I can't figure Edward out. Emmett, Jasper and dad continue to talk about his training and what is to come, and Edward stares into the distance. He runs a hand through his hair. He's got a pensive, almost concerned look on his face. He's _frustrated_.

The expression is completely foreign in his face. I'm not used to it.

My stomach does a weird somersault-type of thing when I realize he was just cornered, and he doesn't actually seem to want me there. I feel pain. Literally, I feel like a fist is squeezing my heart. I understand, having your friend around 24/7, especially when said friend is a girl, can't be easy on any guy, but I'm just, I'm so confused, you know? It feels like he encourages me to be whoever I want to be and open up to him and stuff, but then he feels conflicted about unintentionally leading me on and gets frustrated about the possibility of me living with him. If only for a while.

If Edward's mind had a relationship status, it would be It's Complicated.

Because it's complicated, alright. In hieroglyphs.

I just need to speak to him.

Dad orders more pizza, we play corona (dad joins and makes it really fun), and when Jasper and Emmett want to watch _Goodfellas_ (which is odd because I'm usually the one who's eager to see any film), I see my chance. Edward sits on the most distant seat from the TV, and I'm glad. I can talk to him that way.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" It takes him a few seconds to focus his eyes on me. Jesus, he's out of it.

"What's wrong?"

If you dare say 'nothing', I swear to God, I'll peel the answer off of you.

He shrugs. "Nothing."

Yup. I'll have to peel the answer off of him.

"Do you want me to talk to Angela and see if I can stay at her place?"

"What?"

Jesus, Edward. What the hell?

"Would you prefer I stayed with Angela?"

Finally, he seems to properly understand what I'm talking about, and when he does, I swear, it's like a switch, and he's sharp as a knife.

"Is that what you want?"

He searches my eyes in the dim light. The intensity in his eyes, it's almost desperate, and it kind of hurts me to see it.

"Can you stop answering questions with questions?"

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Edward, once upon a time, there was this boy who convinced his friend, who happened to be a girl, to always be honest with him. He helped her go through more than she could ever return, and one day, he suggested that she's acting like a hypocrite. How is said girl supposed to feel if said boy acts like one himself? Just be honest. Is it a problem, me living with your family for a while? Do you feel like I'd suffocate you? Like you couldn't even bring any girls home because I'd be there? Because if it's the latter, I wouldn't mind at all. It's your life and your decisions."

He stares at me, and I'm not sure if it's because he agrees with what I'm saying or because he doesn't.

"And don't you dare worry about hurting my feelings. I'd rather you tell me now and not suffer for four months and then hate me for a lifetime."

"I'd never hate you."

It's the most he's said during our conversation, well, my monologue. I grasp at the straw.

"Okay. Then what's the problem?"

I pull my legs underneath myself and wait. He puts his arm behind me on the couch, slides it on my shoulder and then pulls me to him. It's progress. It's how Edward deals with problems.

His words are quieter than before.

"Don't you think you'd grow bored with me?"

"What?"

"I'm pretty boring," he says like he's admitting a lifelong secret I've been blind to. "I guess I'm just, uh, not ready for you to get bored with me."

"_That's_ what your uncertainty is about? Me getting _bored_ with you?"

I laugh, loudly. Emmett and Jasper stop their own discussion (yes, still about U.S. Marshal Service) to eye us. I shrug, grinning at them.

Emmett wriggles his eyebrows at my proximity with Edward. "What's so funny?"

"Emmett, don't interrupt us like that. I was just about to have a wild make-out session with Edward." I sneak closer to Edward and place a loud kiss below his ear just to mess with my brother. I hear a rumble-like sound from Edward's chest.

"That's disgusting," Emmett says, throwing the remote at us before returning to his conversation with Jasper.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. "I think your stomach grumbled."

"Pardon?"

I reach for a slice of pizza and offer it to Edward. "Want some?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks."

"And, Edward—I won't get _bored_ with you. That's ridiculous."

"How can you tell?"

"I can't. That's the thing. Just like I can't tell you I'll someday be super-confident about my appearance, or that _you_ won't grow tired of _me_. It's impossible to promise stuff like that. But as far as I can see, I find the idea of growing tired of your company rather ludicrous."

"I find your phrasing rather poetic."

"What can I say? I'm a closet poet." I tug his arm as my eyes widen. "Hey—you write poetry, right?"

"I told you that?"

"Yeah, about a month ago," I reply. "Anyway—would you let me read it? I'd love to read it. I'm sure it's amazing."

"I don't think so."

"Why not? I wouldn't laugh or anything if that's what you're worried about."

"It's kind of personal."

"It's poetry, Edward—it's supposed to be," I answer. "So how about it?"

He keeps shaking his head. "No, Bella. Sorry, but no way are you ever reading that."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"That's disappointing. What if we're sixty, and you're in Hawaii with your family, I'm with mine, we're still best friends and you still have it? Can I read it then?"

"No."

"You really don't want me to read it?"

"Ever."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay then. I understand. I have stuff I'd never want you to catch a glimpse of, too."

He shifts. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Like, you know, this diary?

"Are you like a writer or something?"

"Not really."

And I'm not. The only thing I write is this diary, so it's not like I'm into creative writing or anything. I just like to write down how my life is progressing, with as much knowledge I have, as well as I can remember. Maybe when I'm grey and old, and haven't burned this diary, I'll reread this and think of my silly high-school crush on Edward with happiness in my heart.

Speaking of which—do I only like him because he's the first guy ever to show any sort of affection toward me? Is that it?

"Ah, Edward—getting back to the topic at hand, I just want you to understand you shouldn't be worried about, uh, bringing girls home or anything. You wouldn't have to be celibate just because I'm there."

"Oh, I'm not worried."

Good. That's good. That's what I wanted to hear, right? He understands I'm not holding him back, and that's good.

In the evening, when Jasper and Edward have left, Emmett and I have cleared up the remnants of our computer, and dad has finally changed out of his suit, dad asks me to join him and Emmett in Emmett's room. My brother has cleaned up the mess. I sit on Emmett's bed, leaning on the wall, and Emmett sits next to me. I stretch my legs. Unlike me, Emmett has a double bed.

Dad straddles a chair and crosses his arms over the back of the chair, eyeing us.

I take a moment to look at him, and as I do, I realize I've been so preoccupied with everything to notice changes in him. Even the cardigan he's wearing doesn't hide his muscular arms. He's never been particularly out of shape, no. He's always looked quite young. People tend to be surprised by his occupation because of his youth. He's got tiny wrinkles on his face, a few barely noticeable strands of grey hair, but he's extremely fit. He's gained weight. In a good way. I remember when Angela once suggested that my dad was a total DILF, I burst out laughing and thought she was insane, but I kind of see it now. My dad is an attractive man.

Damn, maybe I'm adopted, too, because I am neither similar to my dad _or_ mom. That is quite depressing.

"I'm not going to ask you about the computer," dad says. "Frankly, I don't care. I'm not going to ground you. We've got enough drama going on without it."

He's holding an envelope. "That's for you, Bella."

I open it.

"But that's—dad, this is more than what I gave you."

"I don't care. It's for you, okay? God knows I haven't spoiled you enough."

He's never complained about his salary, especially for the last five years or so, but not much of it stays in his hands because of mortgage payments and car payments and sports gear for Emmett and… everything seems to cost a lot nowadays.

"But how did you—"

"I got a Christmas bonus and compensation. Overall a hefty amount of money. I am going to give some of it to Jasper's and Edward's parents to cover the expenses concerning you. Then I'm going to give both of you the same amount for the next four months," he says. "Bella, you already have that. Emmett, I put yours straight on your bank account. But Bella gets more because I owed her more. Do you think that's fair?"

"'course," Emmett agrees.

"Good."

Dad rests his elbow on the back of the chair and fists his hair, looking at the both of us. I've never seen him look so, I don't know, exhausted but optimistic. Again, I see how tired he is, how hopeful he is, how much we both mean to him.

"So—bear with me. I have something to say." He sighs. "I know that my timing couldn't be worse, and I'm aware of how sudden all of this seems to you. I didn't mean to take off when we're all so vulnerable and need each other more than ever. I'd meant to suggest that you spend the next semester in, uh, Arizona. Clearly, that's not an option anymore. And I need you both to know, I don't regret making my decisions based on what's best for you, I don't regret having you here, okay? I've never felt trapped or stuck, and I don't want either of you to ever doubt that."

"We don't, dad."

"Good," he nods, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "But for the past few years, the routine, it's gotten to me. I can handle the workload, that was never the problem, but I… it's not challenging enough, not versatile enough. Mind-numbing routine and red tape. It just—I realized I didn't want to end up doing something I didn't like, even if it was a job about as respectable as you can get. So I cast about for an opportunity, a challenging one, and when I met Al, he taught me what it's like to do something you really love, something that challenges you and keeps you on your toes—and so I trained to try out for it, and they accepted."

"That's amazing, dad."

"Is it?" he asks. "It's great to have been accepted, but the timing could be better. What happened with your mom—and even if it hadn't, I could've at least waited until you've both graduated, but I—I got in right now, and the competition is about as tough as it gets. I can't postpone it. If either of you thinks you're not ready for me to go… I won't."

"Just like that?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Don't be stupid, dad," Emmett says. "We're all grown, Bella and I." He ruffles my hair. "It sounds like something you've set out to do. We're not going to hold you back."

"And Bella? Do you have anything against me going? Be honest."

"Of course not. Go. Spread your wings."

"Good," he says. "You two—I see you look out for each other, and I'm glad. I've considered and reconsidered just letting you both live here on your own. Emmett is eighteen. I trust you. That's not a problem. But I'll be happier if there's someone looking out for you, and both Jasper's and Edward's parents—they're good people.

"I also know I've always had temper. You've known it, too. I sometimes judge before I think and I know that can be a problem. But in the past, whenever I've raised my voice at you, I just want you to know—I've never criticized who you are, only your actions. Always your actions." He takes a breath, and I realize, I've never quite seen him look so… unprofessional? Uninhibited? In a good way. He doesn't let his hair down in front of us too often. "Also—I know, coming from a guy who got his first kid at the tender age of nineteen, you won't take this too seriously, but I can't not say this—please don't do anything reckless."

"Dad, we're not going to go off to have sex with everyone when you're gone," I reply.

"I know. But I'm not saying you should never engage in those activities. I'm saying, if you do, please make sure you're safe."

Okay, dad has definitely changed.

"You've got nothing to worry about," Emmett says.

"So when are you going?" I ask.

"On the 23rd."

"Of December?"

"Yes."

"Wow, that's—wow. Next week."

"It's before Christmas, I know. I'm sorry, Bella."

"It's okay, dad. I'm just surprised. This certainly feels sudden."

"Too sudden?"

"Dad, are you trying to squeeze it out of us that we're not comfortable with you going? Of course we'll miss you like crazy. It's four months. But—your happiness is important, too."

"And we're pretty fucking proud of you, dad," Emmett says, not ever remotely embarrassed about his language. Dad lights up at his words, and I can't help but smile, too. "So what did you have to do to get in?"

"I can't tell you. I signed a nondisclosure agreement."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I really can't tell you."

"That's awesome," Emmett says, grinning.

"Dad, I'm sorry about my ignorance, but what exactly do U.S. Marshals do?"

"They're responsible for court security, serving arrest warrants, seeking fugitives, sometimes they cooperate with the FBI, stuff like that."

Yeah, stuff like that. That pretty much covers it.

"So, will you be seeking fugitives, too? Sounds dangerous."

"Hopefully. Not necessarily, but maybe. That's Al's specialty."

My dad, Charlie Geoffrey Swan, might start working with people from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Huh.

"So I have to ask," dad starts, and suddenly, he seems to be holding back laughter. "What made you think I was having an affair?"

Emmett laughs. "You were never here!"

"You avoided us like the plague. And you got really awkward after that night I spent in the auditorium. You said you'd talk about it later, and then you never did. Then I discovered a lip-gloss type of thing from your car, and it was just—so obvious. Except, as we can see now, it really wasn't."

"Hey, I've never avoided you." Dad frowns, still amused. "I just had to train so much. A full-time job left no other option but to do it in the evening and sometimes into the wee hours of the morning."

It sounds intense, but dad laughs, and so do we. It's like I see dad for the first time, in all his rugged hopefulness and exhausted happiness. I feel like I've always seen him as a father, not as a person, and I should really spend some time getting to know him as a person, too. Except, the fact that I now understand why Angela would consider him a DILF, that's incredibly disturbing.

"So, Jasper and Edward and their parents are having dinner with us on the 22nd."

"Okay, who's cooking?"

"I am," dad says, smiling.

"Really?"

He hums, gets up, and turns to leave. Before he does, however, he stops for a moment. "And guys—especially Emmett—I know this will be the perfect opportunity to have wild parties every day in our house, but I only ask this—if you're going to have a wild party, please don't do it in our home. If the word gets out, it will not help me gain respect if my kids are openly inciting illegal activities."

"So we can do it, just secretly?" Emmett asks.

Dad chuckles. "Knock yourself out. Just know that liberty means responsibility. That is why most men dread it."

"Dad! You did not just quote George Bernard Shaw!"

He looks at me, all tender eyes and smiling face, and winks. "I think I did."

I jump up and into his arms. "I love you."

He's startled, I can tell, because we never say those words. We never do. But I think I just did, and it feels good because my dad is amazing and I'm so proud of him.

"Love you, too, Bella," he murmurs, and then looks up. "You both."

I feel like I could just—fly. Or cry. Maybe both. I'm only seventeen, but it feels like it's the first time for me to really look at dad and see him for the incredible man he is, and look at Emmett, and see _him_ for the incredible man he is. And Edward, too. I'm surrounded by incredible people. I feel so lucky.


	11. The Christmas Gift You Deserve

"...if you were designing an organism to look after life in our lonely cosmos, to monitor where it is going and keep a record of where it has been, you wouldn't choose human beings for the job. But here's an extremely salient point: we have been chosen, by fate or Providence or whatever you wish to call it. As far as we can tell, we are the best there is. We may be all there is. It's an unnerving thought that we may be the living universe's supreme achievement and its worst nightmare simultaneously." ― Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_

: :

Jesus, it's 11:23 PM. I've been at this for _hours_. I should really consider getting myself interests outside of writing my diary.

Or not.

I don't know when I stopped writing because of feeling lonely and actually started to enjoy it a little. It's like free therapy for a confused teenager.

Anyway, it's changed things, knowing I have feelings for Edward but not really knowing how to deal with that knowledge.

Suddenly, each and every one of his casual touches means the world to me, but I don't say anything, and I don't know if I'm going to. And what does 'have feelings for' entail in itself? Do I just like him? I mean, I like him as a person. I think he'd be a fascinating guy to get to know properly, long term. I also admire his ability to put people at ease, it's incredible. I just, I don't know, he's pretty amazing. It would be pretty toe-curling just to kiss him… when he's conscious. I don't daydream about any of it, though, and I don't think anything would ever happen. He kind of confuses me. Despite that, he still clearly cares a lot, and I love it that he does.

Does that mean I like him?

I don't act any differently around him, though, or anyone else—excluding the fact that, in a way, I do act differently around everyone, not just him.

Emmett, aren't you proud of me? I haven't cracked a single joke about my appearance, not even in my diary. I'll try not to.

I can't understand, what was Edward's boring comment about? He's involved in so many things, and he writes _poetry_. Let me just list the abundant amount of handsome, wholesome, versatile guys I know who write poetry.

Edward.

That was just the longest list ever, huh?

Anyway, I observe Edward in a way I never really have before. Just after Art History, my third class, I pause before approaching him. We were supposed to meet at the lockers because he insisted on giving me back yesterday's lunch money. I'd already forgotten.

Now, he's standing there with a circle of people, Ben and Angela (Ben is behind her with the dopiest grin, his arms wrapped around her waist—they look so sweet it's giving me diabetes), Laurent, Tyler, Emmett, Tanya, Jessica… luckily, most of them are people I consider friends and converse with, but it's just so weird, seeing how casually he's joking with them. He's towering over them, clad in dark jeans and a green sweater. Underneath it, you can see a white collar.

Seriously, he's like some lithe sweater model or something, because he makes a sweater look manly.

I sneak up on Edward, stretching out my palm in front of him. He puts an arm on my shoulder, kisses the top of my head and places a few dollars on my palm.

"What was that for?" Jessica asks.

"Sexual favors." I battle my eyelashes at Edward. Everyone laughs. Tanya eyes me for a second, but I hope I'm not going to be cause for her angst. She has nothing to worry about. Edward's touchy-feely casualness has nothing to do with me.

And I like it, I like it how my group of friends seem to genuinely get along.

Well, most of the time. It's only high school.

During the day, Eric comes to thank me for whatever I said to Michael. I guess he'd still been giving Eric a hard time, and I'm glad I've helped.

After school, I study in the library to pass the time until football practice is over. Coach Black promised to go over the basics of running and fitness with me today, in our school gym, and so, at seven PM, I am dressed in tights and a black T-shirt with the periodic table on it. Emmett once gave it to me for Christmas.

I'm sitting on a bench just inside the gym, so when the door opens, I watch guys come in. There's rustling and shouting and talking, and at one point, Edward stops in the foyer (football attire really, uh, accentuates his finer points), staring at me. So does Emmett, wondering what made Edward stop, and Laurent stops after them. They stare. I stare back. I would've gone to watch their practice, but I wanted to be warm and study today. I'll see them next time. Maybe.

"Is dad okay?" Emmett asks, walking closer. I stand.

"As far as I know."

"Did you need to speak to me or Edward?"

"No. Sorry, not really."

"Then what're you doing here?"

"Miss Swan, just in time," Mr. Black enters the building, offering me a somewhat tired smile. "You can wait for me in the small gym," he adds, entering guy's changing room. Small gym is what we call the second floor with ropes and mattresses and overall exercise equipment.

"I'm here to train."

"For what?"

"A marathon."

"A what?"

"A marathon, you know, 26 miles of running?"

Emmett steps closer. "But you—you don't even _like_ sports."

"People change."

He looks at Edward, at Laurent, and lets out, "Huh."

I laugh. Emmett shakes his head and leaves with Laurent, but Edward steps closer. It's as if he's studying me or seeing me for the first time because he looks intense. It makes me feel cherished. Unnerved. Both.

"You should wear that to school," I say.

He looks down. "This? Why?"

"You look like one hunk of a man. The girls would totally flip out and you couldn't tear them from your bed if you burned your house down."

He lets out a sort of huff-snort, but I can tell he's pleased. "Why, Bella, do you find me attractive?"

"In your dreams, Edward."

He chuckles, ruffles my hair and places a kiss on my forehead.

"Indeed, Bella," he mutters, turning to leave. "Indeed."

How is it that a girl as far from casual touching as I am has found herself a best friend who is so casual about touching he doesn't even think about such things? Only me, I swear.

But before he's in the changing room, he stops and turns, as if he forgot something. He calls after me, and he's wearing a smile a mile wide. He looks both sides before opening his mouth.

"Rosalie contacted me."

"Oh, wow. Is she okay?"

"Yeah," he answers, grinning. "At least that's what she told me."

"Where is she?"

"She wouldn't tell me. She said she's close enough to me but not far enough from her family."

"Edward, that's—that's such great news!"

He beams a smile worthy of a Crest commercial. "I know."

I don't have a gift yet for Edward, but I have an idea. It's insane, and it probably won't work. But what if—what if I could contact Edward's sister myself and convince her to come to our Christmas party? To meet Edward? If she's not in Seattle, hell, I'll pay for her bus or plane ticket. Edward has done so much for me, and he's not worth anything less than the best.

Maybe I could give him this? I really want to.

Anyway.

After finally knowing what I want to "get" for Edward, I walk in the small gym and sit in the middle of a blue mattress. I observe exercise equipment, the wooden (well, maybe fake-wooden) walls and the ropes that hang from the ceiling. I've always hated those ropes. Never in my life have I been able to climb one. Mr. Black joins me not long after I've sat down, and I start to stand, but he motions for me not to. He offers me a greeting, sits on the mattress next to me, puts a book behind him, and without explanation, presses two fingers on my neck.

"What're you doing?"

"Checking your resting heart rate."

He pushes a button on his stopper and starts to count. I stay silent. He pauses the stopper, and lets out a long-ish hum. I'm not sure if that means he's impressed or unimpressed. Then, still without commenting, he looks me straight in the eye.

"If you don't find a better reason for running a marathon than the one you currently have you're going to find yourself another coach."

I try not to look affected by his words. He didn't seem to like Michael, either, so why is it a bad excuse?

"If Michael Newton decides not to run, if he has an injury, if he's unable to run for any reason whatsoever, would you still be driven to run a marathon? I'm impressed that you would want to go to such lengths to prove yourself, but if beating him is your only drive to run, you won't make it. It's not enough."

That is one excellent question. Would I? Do I want this not merely because I need to show Michael I'm capable of being better than him, but because I want this and I've got something to prove to myself, too?

How amazing would it be to successfully finish a marathon? To be fit enough to have a good time? To have a reason to step outside the box?

"Yes, I'd still do it."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your reasoning."

I feel like he's testing me, and I'm sure I'm right. He probably is.

"I started to jog even before he was in the equation and I still want to improve my athletic side. I'd love to make my dad proud. I think it would help me gain self-confidence, and I want to be able to prove to myself that a person who's been as far from sports as I've been would have the diligence to be able to successfully finish a marathon."

Jesus Christ, I sound like such an obedient student. Where is my passion? I want to be passionate about this.

"I want it."

He hums again, and it's the most unnerving sound. Am I disqualified? If Michael doesn't run, it would still be amazing to run a marathon. I'm truthful in my words. I do still want to run.

Mr. Black makes me run on a treadmill. After that, he checks my pulse. I run, he checks my pulse. In the end, I'm running faster. I'm panting, but I don't give up. I sweat a lot. Finally, when it feels like he's gotten me cough my lungs out, he checks my pulse again.

He shows me stretches that I've never even thought of, helps me stretch, and finally, we sit on the mattress again. When I'm no longer panting, he checks my pulse. I hope he's not disappointed by my bad performance because I did my best. I really did.

I drink water.

"Your resting heart rate was 49 beats per minute."

"And that is—good?"

Finally, his face gets out of this limbo of no expression, and he smiles, showing no teeth. "It's slow."

"And that's bad?"

"It's an athlete's heart rate."

"So it's good?"

"Yes." He smiles a real smile, with teeth and all. "Do you know if your brother or father takes any supplements to stay fit?"

"I—I don't know, but I don't think so."

"Do not think that what I will tell you now will immediately help you through everything, it won't. Running a marathon is one hell of a quest. It will be tough, you'll want to give up more than once, and the chances of you beating Michael Newton are slim to none. That's the reality check." He slides his book closer to himself. "However, you're in better physical condition than you probably think. Are you serious about this? Do you want to us to make you a work-out schedule, do you want to spend your mornings or evenings in the gym? Do you really want to put your heart into this? Because if you're serious about this, and if you believe in yourself, you won't be the only one surprised by your results."

"What do I need to do?"

"How tall are you?"

"Five nine."

"How much do you weigh?"

"Honestly? I have no idea."

"Come on, let's weigh you."

I intended to do this, I know I did, but I feel a little uncomfortable because I know—even though I've gained enough for a few pairs of jeans not to fit me (hey, that's great news!), I still won't like what I see. I close my eyes when I step on the scale, and open them as I hear Mr. Black hum next to me.

"106 pounds," he says, still in that hum-like way of his. He takes a calculator. "That's a BMI of 15.7. Clearly underweight." He looks at me. "I won't let you run the actual marathon unless you manage to have BMI of at least 18.5. You'll need to gain at least twenty pounds. Maybe thirty. You'd still be slim by any standards."

"I'm not afraid of getting fat."

"Good, 'cause you'll need to eat a lot, regularly, and properly."

"I already am."

He hums.

"I also need to tell you this—top female athletes often have problems with how regular their menstrual cycle is, so I suggest that if you're not already on the pill, you should consider it."

I would have never thought I'd find myself drawing similarities between two so entirely different people, Jacob and Edward, but I have to say, the extreme lack of any discomfort in his face reminds me of Edward. Kind of.

And I'm aware of that fact. I know that professional female athletes tend to have those problems. I'm glad he reminded me.

"That won't be a problem."

"Great," he says. "Do you run every morning, Isabella?"

"Yes."

"Don't. You need one, if not two, rest days a week. I'll make you a schedule, and you'll start cross-training as well. And a few weeks prior to the marathon, you'll start your taper. Rest is an extremely important part of training."

The huh of the huh of the huh?

Huh?

Er, Isabella Swan, the running enthusiast whose running lingo is non-existent.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Black, I'm not very familiar with the terms yet. Cross-training? Taper?"

He smiles. I swear, the way he never undermines my confidence when he could laugh at me, I'm really starting to appreciate it. "You'll learn. Cross-training is exercising outside of your sport to reduce your chance of injury and balance your muscle groups. You also won't get sick of running that way. Like swimming, skiing, skating, rowing, stuff like that. Taper is simply a period before a competition when you won't train as much." He hands me the book he's been holding. "Here. It's mine, I'd like you to read it."

The book is quite worn, and titled _Marathon Running: From Beginner to Elite_ by Richard Nerurkar. I've never heard of him. I'm starting to realize there's an entire world out there, world I know very little about. The world of athletes. I've always held the belief that, just like my piano-playing, you can't make it without talent, but I'm starting to think… maybe I was wrong? Maybe my piano teacher was wrong?

They wouldn't write books about this stuff if it weren't possible for us, mere mortals, to succeed, too.

Right?

"Thank you. I will."

Together, we work out a work-out schedule for me. Mondays and Thursdays are rest days, at least for now (because I have Drama those days and I don't want to burn out), I'm going run three times a week, one of them long-distance, and do cross-training twice a week. For the first few weeks, he's going to help me a lot, and after that—once I've gotten the knack of working out—I'm more independent. My work-out is going to get longer and more intense every week, but we're starting slow to minimize my risk of injuries.

I never really thought of injuries before, but seeing how many athletes skip competitions because of them, I guess I should be really careful.

Aw, look at me, speaking about myself like I'm becoming a top athlete or something.

Hardy har har.

"Mr. Black?"

"I think it's alright to call me Jacob when not in class. We'll be seeing a lot of each other," he says. "Kind of like you do with Peter."

"Yes, but he's _Peter_," I answer.

He chuckles.

"So, er, Jacob, I just want to know—do you really think it would be possible for me to achieve a time under three hours?"

He disentangles his hair before tying it into a pony tail again, and he looks at me. "Honestly? Yes. Yes, I do."

"Even though I'm not athletic or talented or anything?"

Please say it doesn't matter. Please, please confirm I was wrong.

"Isabella, I thought I just assured you that you are."

"Athletic? No, I'm not."

"Talented. Athleticism is achievable, talent is where you start before that."

"But I'm not even good!"

"Isabella, your heart rate recovered from exercise faster than some football players'—it doesn't show much, but it shows something. Your brother's is like that, too, and I could only assume your father is athletic as well. I remember that your mother played volleyball on a pretty serious level. You've got it in you. I'm not saying it's a solution to all of your problems, not at all, I'm just saying… you've got more potential than you think. But of course, I could've just given you a blatant lie to make you work that much harder. But I didn't. If you're driven to run and finish and succeed on this marathon, you'll do it regardless of what I say."

"I am. I'm driven."

"I know, Isabella. I know," he replies, smiling in that amiable way of his. "That's why I didn't lie to you. Talented or not, you'll still need to work incredibly hard for this. Your supposed fitness is not going to win the marathon for you."

"I'll do whatever you need me to do to be the best I can be."

"You and your brother are very alike."

"So talent isn't everything?"

"God, no. Of course not. There are plenty of athletes who claim to have no talent. You can make it without it. But talent is good because it makes you susceptible to being interested, which, in return, makes you want to spend doing what you love, and if you do it long enough, if you're determined enough, you'll succeed. Even if the only person you beat is yourself."

Incredible as it is, I find myself agreeing with him.

"And, Isabella? It's not every day I get a seventeen year old student tell me to torture them after they've suffered from such a loss. Some people are born fighters."

I'm baffled.

He couldn't have known how I feel about talent. But I see it now, it's not so much as where do I start off, it's where I want to go from there. It's _whether_ I want to go somewhere from there or not. Talent, in itself, isn't a bad word, it's if and how you use it. And if you don't have it, you just have to work that much harder. If he had told me I didn't have it, I would've believed him. But I'm surprised to admit to myself that I'm flattered he'd think I had it.

Isabella Swan, the ugly duckling who never quite lived up to her name, is good at something without really trying.

Hey, there's a first for everything.

I like Mr. Black, he's sort of amiable but professional. He never makes me feel inadequate, he always explains what he thinks and why, and even when he implies my goals might stay out of my reach, he also says it's up to me.

I like that.

It means my success depends on my dedication and hard work, and nothing else, not even my supposed talent. It's all up to me. No-one and nothing else but my own determination.

In the evening, I stop by Edward's place to use his laptop and send a letter to my employer who sent me a polite threat to fire me if I ever again simply _not_ _appear_ at the workplace (much like I did last weekend). At home, I discover dad is home so I could've just used his work computer. Oh, well. So I use it to contact Rosalie, and cross my fingers for the best. I'll do anything she wants (within the realm of reality) if she'd only agree to meet Edward. If she's healthy enough for that to happen.

Mom's gifts to us—a large box for me, a smaller one for Emmett—are now under a branch of fir tree. We haven't gotten around to having an actual tree, and it doesn't seem to matter. The little branch we do have has nothing on it. Mom wasn't big on the whole Christmas tree decorating thing. She always said she didn't want to cover up the beauty of nature to watch a mindless amount of sparkling plastic and glass.

For once, we all seem to agree. Nobody makes an attempt at decorating our little branch.

: :

_Friday, the 17__th__ of December  
3:43 PM, laying under my bed, listening to A. L. Webber's Memory and thinking about what? Uh-oh. _

_Emmett, why do you have A. L. Webber on your iPod?_

What did I say about not daydreaming about Edward? I am such a liar. It's like there's a world I didn't know about right in front of me, and all I see is couple-y behavior. Where have I been? Lauren and Tyler are flirting around our lunch table, Angela and Ben lost in each other (nothing new there, actually), Tanya laughing at everything Edward says. Well, he can be fun, and I laugh, too, but I think I see the differences in Tanya's behavior and I find myself discombobulated. Ah, that is such a great word. I'll just use that from now on.

Do I act differently around Edward without even knowing it? Do I? Am I a bad person now, seeing Tanya's intentions and not really liking her for it? Because we like the same guy? I have no business judging anyone's behavior when clearly I can't even handle giving Edward a hint that I've had an epic realization. And I'm not judging anyone, I just feel like I've been wearing pink glasses, never caring who likes who and whatnot, and suddenly, I'm right in the middle of it and I do not know the rules. I don't know this game.

I've never tried to get anyone's attention. No-one's ever caught my own, either.

I've never caught anyone's attention. Still haven't.

Shit, I'm screwed.

Like, girls change themselves to get a guy's attention, right? Start wearing make-up, revealing clothing, all that jazz. It sounds logical, I know, every effing movie about a teenage drama has that one girl who waltzes in at the right moment and knows all the secrets to seducing a guy and does this big make-over on the girl and the guy suddenly realizes he likes her but then she's afraid he only likes her after the change—not before—and then it's blown out of proportion before the guy admits to liking the girl before the change. After that, it's happily ever after.

Well, boo-hoo.

The thing is, I don't _want_ to start wearing tons of make-up for Edward to see me. I don't _want_ to wear clothing more revealing. I don't _want_ to change myself just because of a guy, even if that guy is as incredible as Edward. If he does not like me for who I am, yeah, I'd be sad. Devastated. I don't know, you know?

Well, no, I know Edward likes me for who I am. I know he does. But liking someone as a person and wanting something more with them are two entirely separate concepts.

And I don't mean to say anything bad about those girls who do feel like they should present their very best to the guy. I don't mean that. Everyone is different, right? It's everyone's individual liberty to act however they want and not an inch differently. But do I really have to go through a giant make-over if really, I'd rather just… not?

I don't want to.

So where does that leave me?

I've also come to a rather startling realization—sure, it crossed my mind that Edward might be a little backwards, sparing his touchy-feely behavior to those who don't think anything of it. But—I've noticed the only person who isn't at the receiving end of his casualness is, well, _Tanya_. He's way more casual with anyone: Lauren, Angela, any of the guys, you name it. But not her. That speaks volumes. Either he likes her a whole lot, or not at all.

Yeah, he's most casual with me, but I'm his best friend, and he doesn't _mean_ anything by it. He's so used to it.

As I said, I'm screwed.

So, we played through our musical yesterday in its entirety, and it wasn't that bad. It's going to work out. I still haven't found my, uh, spark? Spirit? Spunk? By that, I of course mean that I'm fairly silent through it all. Peter does compliment me on what I've done with the choreography, and even though I'm flattered, I feel like it was done by an entirely different person, like a separate identity from myself.

I play Grizabella (originally played by Elaine Paige) "The Glamor Cat" (this is just one big joke waiting to happen, huh?) who wears the most ragged but super-hot costume. Seriously, I thought I was going to die today. It is so hot. If there is any chance of snow on Monday, I'll flee from the stage and jump right into it.

Don't be fooled by the name, though, Glamor Cat is not at all glamorous. I get to wear the goofiest, ugliest make-up, a horrible wig that makes me look like an 80s artist gone wild, and a costume that's about as hot as Scarlett Johansson. She's hot.

It's gonna be awesome.

Edward (he plays Gus, an old ex-actor), fortunately for him, gets to wear brown and shabby pants and a long, furry sweater. There are a few boys who have a head-to-toe costume, and they are not at all pleased.

So, _Cats_? Let me just rephrase the intricate plot of T.S. Eliot's _Cats_.

There are cats. Lots of them.

They sing.

The end.

It's all really complex and twisted.

No, actually, it's a story of cats who gather around to prove to Old Deuteronomy (Laurent, in our case) that they are most worthy of a journey up to the Heavy Side Lair. He's going to choose only one cat. So each cat gets to sing a song (when we do sing, we sing together, because we're not exactly world-class singers) and make his/her case on why they should be chosen.

The sad part is, Peter asked me to sing _Memory_. Alone. Like, with background music, but no other singers.

This is a disaster waiting to happen.

It's a beautiful song. It is. I love it, it has so much emotion. And I'm not afraid of performing, not at all. I don't really care about the audience. I do care about an audience who leaves in the middle of my performance out of fear that their ear will bleed. I'm not horrible, I'm fairly decent, but Peter thinks all I need is to do some vocal exercises with the Music's teacher, Miss Rhodes, and I'll be "fine."

Right.

Sounds likely.

But Peter suggested it in such a frail way, he mentioned it in passing that if I felt like it, he'd really appreciate it if I'd sing it alone. He didn't tell me I had to, but I just had to grab onto his idea and assure him that I can do it. Just to—to throw myself in situations to see how much my perception of myself is changing. So now I'm doing things just to prove something or other to myself.

Sometimes I wonder if I should get an Oscar for being so fake-blasé about things that matter to me.

So, today, we had a dress rehearsal as well, and I realize our musical is kind of funny, so we'll be fine. I hope. I'll be drinking water and eating lemons and singing your ears off, Emmett. Be prepared.

On a brighter note, school is over! Where have I been? I haven't even had time to plan building all those snowmen… sorry, mud-men.

: :

_Tuesday, the 21__th__ of December  
00:32 AM, listening to A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton (hey, we all have our cheesy moments).  
_

At around half to seven, I'm in my costume and determined not to vomit my guts out. Most of us have changed into furry heat, and we're doing vocal exercises in Math classroom (107) and waiting for the last people to finish changing. Everyone's happy but nervous. I'm usually cool as a cucumber, but today, I just feel… I don't know. I'm not one for stage fright, and I specifically came to school yesterday to sing _Memory_ with Peter. He gave me thumbs up.

Regardless of his digits, I still feel like throwing up. Everyone's nervous, and anyone who has the slightest of problems comes to me. They're so used to my joking, it's familiar and they claim it calms them before performing, so I act all I Don't Care but feel like retching and they're all so happy and relaxed afterwards as if I just gave them the magic antidote.

Seriously, where is my Oscar?

And the thing is, I'm not particularly nervous about my performance. If I screw it up, oh, well. I'll live. I've survived worse.

I'm nervous because, well.

Edward's sister promised to show up after our Christmas compilation to our party.

I'm not even kidding.

It took us quite a few messages back and forth for her to trust me and for us to speak more casually to each other. She hadn't planned on even attempting to meet him before New Year's, and it took a lot of convincing, but once I found out she had come to Seattle for the sole purpose of meeting Edward, I asked her if her health would allow and if she'd need any money (if anyone in the world is in need of help, it's her). She asked me for the time and address.

It's surreal.

I spent the entire weekend trying to make Edward's life work where mine hadn't.

She couldn't be here for the performance, only for our Drama party after it, but it's fine. At least she'll be here. I hope.

I also hope Edward won't think I'm sticking my nose in his business, I just want him to have the perfect Christmas gift. He's been here for me all those times I've broken down at school. He deserves a surprise for caring as much as he does.

Once we're finished with vocal exercises, Laurent says my name and stands next to me in his long gray suit, a beard, a wig and a wide grin. I mirror it. The girls painted my face white, my eyes and nose black, lips dark red. They gave me fake wrinkles. It looks fun.

"How come you're never nervous about these things?"

"I wear a pair of power g-strings," I answer. "They're pink and have Mickey Mouse on them. They work wonders."

"Sounds comfortable."

"Oh, they're lacy, too. Of course they are. I can loan them to you sometime."

"I think I'll skip."

"Too bad. You'll never know what it's like, being cool as a cucumber."

Edward joins us, and he looks pretty funny with grey eyebrows and a goatee. He puts an arm on my shoulder (as he does), and looks at the both of us.

"Who is cool as a cucumber?"

"Bella here. I don't think I've ever seen her nervous."

"But she has no reason to be."

"Speak for yourself, Mr. I Could Cough at Juilliard Main Entrance and Get Accepted."

People around me laugh. How come I never notice how many people hear what I'm saying? Maybe I'd bullshit less and try to act like an actual human being.

Er, no. Not going to happen.

"Maybe I'll loan _you_ my pink Mickey Mouse g-strings and make you wear them at Juilliard main entrance. You'd totally get in."

"Totally," Edward repeats, clearly mocking me. I can tell he's amused, but unlike me, he's not that good at disguising his nerves. At least not from me because I can tell he's nervous. Very much so.

I excuse us from Laurent.

"Any way I could make you less nervous?"

"Yes," he replies and looks down at me. "Kiss me."

I laugh and pull at his goatee. "No, I'm serious. How can I help you?"

He tries to tug at his hair, but it's covered in gel. His hair has to stay up.

"I'll be fine."

"You sound convinced," I reply. "You're not usually anxious around people."

"Being on stage and conversing with friends are two different things."

"Let's say they are. What's the thing you're most afraid of?"

Edward shrugs. "Messing up?"

"And if you do? What's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know. People would laugh?"

"So let's say they do. Then what?"

"I'd be humiliated."

"Let's say you were. Then what?"

"I'd die of humiliation."

"That's a likely scenario. I like it. What do you think would happen after two weeks of holidays?"

"People would laugh every time they see me?"

"Okay," I reply. "Edward, nobody in high-school is really like that. So they'd laugh for a moment. But high-school is like a perpetual collection of short term memories. People like to have a good laugh. But they'll forget. They have their own problems to think about. And if you mess up like never seen before—which is impossible—yeah, they'd notice. But the play will be over, they'll return to their own lives and forget all about it. Even if they remember it in January, I doubt they'll focus on it." I really like his goatee, it's so much fun, so I play with it a little. "Besides, bad decisions make good stories."

"Have you ever messed up? Badly?"

"Are you kidding me? I mess up every day. All the world's a stage."

"What about on stage?"

"Of course I have. But I'm still here, aren't I? And I'll mess up again and again, ad infinitum."

"So what do you do if you mess up?"

"Fake it til you make it," I answer. "Laugh it off. Laugh at yourself. Continue like nothing happened. Hold your head high and pretend you meant to mess up."

"You have the answers to everything."

"Oh, I'm just a fountain of knowledge," I agree, smiling. I observe him a little and I'm glad to note he doesn't look as nervous. Still nervous, but not as much.

"So when you mess up? Just continue."

"You're saying like it's a given I will."

"A-ha! I got you to argue your case! See? You don't really think you'll mess up, you're just afraid you will."

"Guys," Peter calls. "We're up."

And it's like the old times. It's fun, the audience laughs a lot, we sing, I sing, Peter plays the piano. Our play seems to be accepted very well, and no, Edward doesn't mess up. He's hesitant in one place, but he makes it seem like it was intentional. Fake it til you make it.

That, right there, is my life philosophy.

When our play is over, we bow to the audience and run out. Edward has to change out of his clothes for our "duet", I chose to wear my cat costume (it would take too much time to rub off all that white paint) and we wait for our turn. Our _Silver_ _Thunderbird_ is the last part of our Christmas compilation, and after that, people get to go home to their families. But the turn-up for our school's Christmas party is phenomenal. Even my dad is here.

Do you know how often dad has had the time to see my performances?

This is his third. It's not that he doesn't care, he's just otherwise occupied. He's too nice to refuse any of his employees or colleagues.

But he's here now.

We stand side by side with Edward, watching elementary schoolers' choir from the doorway, and Edward is getting nervous again. He's clad in black jeans, a light blue button-down, and for the first time, I notice that he has a five o'clock shadow. For the amount of attention I give him, you'd think I'd have noticed he's shaving. I mean, most guys in our class do, but Edward's stubble isn't even subtle. It's noticeable.

Seriously, do I ever notice anything in my life? Even with things I pay plenty of attention to I fail to notice a lot.

When the kids have finished singing and the final song is announced, Edward and I enter 106 again, and side by side, walk to the piano. I sit, holding my tail not to sit on it, and I'm surprised to see Edward sit next to me with a microphone in his hand. It's lowered.

"What're you doing?"

"Sitting."

And I don't argue when I see him cast a nervous glance at the crowded seats. Eyes are on us, but a few kids are still leaving the stage. Once again, I look at Edward, and he's got a piece of goatee next to his ear. He freezes when I touch his face to remove it.

"A piece of beard just couldn't bear the thought of being departed from you."

He actually cracks a smile. "Thanks."

"Edward?" I lean closer to him and whisper, "Pretend it's just us. Nobody else in the room, like when we were stuck here. Don't look at them."

He takes a breath, nodding. The crowd is quiet.

"Ready?"

And either I'm a better at putting people at ease than I thought or Edward shows more nerves than he feels or maybe he just doesn't give himself enough credit, but I play, and he starts singing with no problems at all. No, that is an understatement.

I think I witness the entire audience experience a four minute eargasm. I think half of the audience just changed their sexual orientation.

Yeah. That's more like it. Edward makes me join at the chorus, and I do. I'm a little silly (hey, I'm in a cat costume, what do you expect?) but he's fantastic, and if I paid more attention, I think I'd hear the sound of jaws dropping to the floor.

After the final note, a single man stands to give us a standing ovation. It's dad. It was mom's favorite song, of course he's overwhelmed. After he's stood for a few seconds, the rest of the audience follows his example.

Edward gets a standing ovation.

"They love you," I whisper as I lean closer to him, and he smiles at me.

"Us," he mutters, casually takes my hand, we bow together and leave the stage. The senior girl who announces everything wishes everyone a merry Christmas and a safe trip home.

My dad catches Edward and me from the corridor, and he's speechless. Literally, he opens and closes his mouth twice before he pulls me into a hug. Edward leaves to probably give us some space, but he didn't need to because dad wants to go home and cook dinner before I arrive. He says he won't have many chances to do that for a while.

I walk him to the main entrance.

"So you play the piano again?"

"Turns out I do."

He gives me a gentle smile. "I've missed hearing you play."

"Emmett said that, too," I reply. "Why didn't you guys ever say anything?"

"I don't know," he replies. "You were always so determined and conscientious and I never quite got the idea that you actually enjoyed it."

"Well, I seem to have shed my distaste," I reply. "And, uh, dad. Is it okay if we do one little evening in mom's honor? Maybe even tonight? Just to—I don't know, send her away our own way?"

Surprised, he nods. "That—that's a great idea. Will you play?"

"Marc Cohn? Sure, dad. I can play."

We part our ways. I look around, watching people leave and hug and wish each other merry Christmas, watching Edward receive congratulations from every passing person like he's the hero of the night. His parents beam with pride. I receive the occasional kudos, too, before I go and wish all of my friends (outside of Drama) a merry Christmas.

Soon enough, most of the guests and parents and students and teachers have left, and our Drama class returns to 106 to have our own little Christmas party. The room is now dim with blinking lights in every corner and a little table with snacks. It feels festive and joyful. Almost half of us have neglected to change into our own clothes, and I laugh when I see little Irina twirl and wriggle her tail.

It's twenty minutes after seven. Rosalie promised to be here at eight. I can only hope she makes it. If she wants anything at all in return for turning up, I'll gladly grant her wishes.

We exchange gifts. I wait a bit as Laurent gives away his own gift. Like me, he's still wearing the cat costume, and when he looks up, his eyes widen. I curtsy ceremoniously with a toothy grin and give him my gift.

"I thought you didn't get me?"

"I couldn't just reveal myself."

He rips it open, and I'm glad to see he seems to genuinely appreciate the content. "But how'd you know?"

"I paid attention during lunch. I just hoped you hadn't bought the game before I got there."

"But how do you even _notice_ this stuff?"

"All about pink lacy Mickey Mouse g-strings, baby."

He laughs and hugs me briefly. "Thanks."

"No problem."

I turn to leave, but he calls me back.

"Bella?"

"Shoot."

"I've been kind of wondering—would you mind going out with me? Like, catch a movie or something?"

Er, what?

Hello, fifth dimension, long time no see.

It's like I've never seen the guy before, even though he joined our Drama class in September. He's just an inch or two taller than I am (six foot), he's got black short hair and he's built like a truck. I've considered Laurent a friend since spring, but never in a million years would I have guessed that a senior jock would want to ask me out.

Like, seriously, how can I claim to be quite perceptive when I'm blind as fuck?

"Is this a prank? Or a bet or something?"

"No." He laughs.

"Are you for real?"

"Yup. I know we're friends and all, but I just—you're a cool girl, Bella."

"Huh."

"What?" he asks, never letting his mood go down. "Is it a problem that I'm black?"

"God, no! Laurent! You know me better than that."

"I kinda figured, but I had to ask. If that's not a problem, then what is?"

Yeah, Bella, what _is_ the problem? No-one's ever been interested in me, and honestly, I'm flattered. I really am. And I don't know him well, but I know him well enough to know he's pretty cool and wouldn't turn out to be an axe-murderer.

"Hey, Bella, you're not gonna offend me or anything." He shrugs. "You can just tell me."

Suddenly, Edward is by my side, and that makes Laurent quite shy. He no longer pushes me for the answer, and even though Edward greets him, Laurent only shrugs a response. Edward motions for us to move, but I don't.

I'm blown away. There is a young man in this world who would want to ask me out.

"Laurent," I say, and he looks up. He doesn't look at Edward. "Just call me sometimes this week, and I'll give you my answer. Sounds fair?"

"Sure." He grins again, and goes to talk to Peter and Irina.

And I'm just… speechless. Yeah, I never quite understood why he hung out with us or why he joined Drama. Is this it? Did he literally join Drama to gather up the courage to ask me out?

I feel… I don't know how I feel. If that's true, I'm pretty blown away.

"Bella?" Edward waves his hand in front of my face. "Anybody in there?"

"Sorry, but I just discovered America."

"How come?" Edward asks, and he's searching for something in his bag. I sit next to the seat where Edward's bag is sitting. Heh, so much sitting in one sentence.

"Laurent just asked me out."

Edward freezes. Like in slow motion, he turns his head to look at my face, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at his expression. He straightens his back, his legs are slightly apart, and he's holding a piece of paper. His eyes avert from me to Laurent and back again. He frowns, he looks pained or concerned or frustrated or heck if I knew. Maybe I should stop trying to figure him out.

He does look hell of a lot surprised and—uh, sad? I don't know!

"Jesus, Edward." I feel a little offended. "I know I'm not like a normal girl or anything, but is it really impossible for Laurent to think that the idea of going out with me isn't entirely unappealing? Ouch."

"Of course that's not what I meant. I was just so, uh, surprised." Edward averts his eyes, frowns, and sort of clears his throat. "So what did you tell him?"

Okay, now I'm sure: he looks like he's in pain, in physical pain. Like I ran over his dog or something. Did I cause it? How could I have caused it?

"I told him I'd think about it. He'll call."

"Oh," he says, not elaborating. But now he's hunching a little. I feel like I just sucked the living daylights out of him. But he doesn't even like me! Or does he think if I get a boyfriend he'd be second best or something?

"So what do you think you're going to say?"

"Edward, girls like me, they don't have flocks of guys lined up behind their door. It's not like I have much of a choice in life. So I don't know."

"Bella, stop saying shit like that."

"It's the truth. I didn't make a joke at my own expense—I'm just saying, maybe some of us can't afford to find love in life. So what if I'll have to settle for trust and companionship? Maybe I'll still manage to be happy."

In _Pride and Prejudice_, there's this character, Charlotte Lucas, the protagonist's best friend, she's quite "old" (for a single woman at that age), she's not considered beautiful, and she has no other choice but to settle. Maybe I'm my own life's Charlotte? What if I am?

Meh, it's not the nineteenth century. I'd probably stay single forever.

"That's bullshit, Bella," Edward says, and he's frustrated. "How can I make you stop being so insecure about this? I know you haven't made any jokes about it, but it's just like you said. It starts with the way you think."

"I know it does."

He lowers his voice. "Then why the fuck would you think you're not _worthy_ _of_ _love_ because of your appearance? Everyone deserves to be loved, Bella. Everyone."

"Even the pedophiles and rapists?"

"Not what I meant."

"I know."

"Then why should you _settle_ for less than what you're worth?" he asks, his eyes locked with mine and filled with intensity. After a moment, his eyes widen, and he's no longer angry. "Wait—going out with Laurent would be like _settling_ for you?"

I stay quiet, it's pretty much self-explanatory. I don't know. I don't know him well enough to judge.

But Edward, his face loses the anguish, and it has the tiniest glimmer of hope in them. "So there's a guy Isabella Swan has his eyes on, but feels too unworthy to approach?"

I blush scarlet, and it's so annoying. No way in hell am I telling him.

"There is, isn't there," he says, and he's much happier than before, teasing me like that.

"Edward, just—don't."

He grins.

"But promise me, whatever you do, you won't _settle_ for someone in life."

"Is this important?"

"Very."

"Alright. I promise."

"And you haven't decided if you want to go out with him?"

"No I haven't."

He lets out a breath, and he's back to normal. Then, he nervously hands me an envelope.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm giving you your gift."

"But we were supposed to share gifts after the party."

"I know, but I got your name."

"No, you didn't."

He pulls out a slip of paper from his back bag, and gives it to me. It reads _Isabella_ _Swan_.

"But you told me you didn't get me."

"No, I didn't."

He said he wished he'd gotten me, so I assumed he hadn't. But he did.

I stand up next to an uneasy-looking Edward and open the envelope.

_my dearest Bella, _

_I tried to get it out of you, what you would like—what you would really enjoy. but you never let on. you're really difficult to read, you know? so I got you this. it's a hug coupon. I thought of you when I saw it._

_use it well._

_merry Christmas, Bella. :)_

—_E._

_Hug Coupon: The bearer of this coupon is entitled to a warm hug. Please leave everything immediately and hug the coupon bearer in exchange for the coupon. _

There was a silly picture of a brown bear on it.

"So, uh, do you like it?" he asks with the most genuine concern. "I mean—I know it's not like something really practical, which I know you would've loved, but I—I just…" he trails off, staring at me. "Oh, shit, you hate it, don't you? I'm so sorry, I really tried to—"

I give him the coupon.

"Oh—shit, I'm sorry," he apologizes with the most heartbreaking expression, but his eyes widen once he's raised them. I step closer.

"What're you doing?"

"I have a hug coupon and I intend to use it well."

He blinks a few times, and when it finally dawns on him what I'm doing, he lets out a long breath. I pull him so close I can almost feel his heartbeat next to mine and raise my chin to the crook of his neck. I hold on. My mouth is just under his ear.

"This is the best gift, and I mean it," I whisper. "But you—you've been here for me when I most needed you and that—that's invaluable. Thank you."

He squeezes me, and I feel his nod. But he doesn't let go. It's a very long hug. Turns out when I put my mind to it, I'm capable of casual human proximity, too. And his arms feel really nice. Like, really, really nice.

"There's two tickets to _War Horse_ in the envelope as well."

I pull back, but only slightly. "The one at The Paramount Theatre? You're kidding me?"

"Nope."

I squeeze him tighter. "That's amazing, Edward—thank you."

After a few minutes (or ten), we pull away and grin at each other. I feel Edward's breath on my forehead. All I want to do is lift my chin and pretend there's a mistletoe so that I had a reason to kiss him. I wish I had the guts. Instead, I raise myself on my tiptoes and give him a kiss on the cheek. He's startled, I can tell. I smile and rub my lipstick off his cheek with my thumb for a second, and he's even more startled. His eyes look quite intense, and I don't know how to interpret it, but he has no time to react or act, because his gaze has fallen on a girl just inside the auditorium.

His mouth falls slightly agape.

His eyes flicker between me and the girl.

"You didn't," he says, and his voice is full of wonder. "You didn't."

"I did."

He locks eyes with me. They're wide. "But how did you—when did you? Why is she—how?"

I grin and motion at Rosalie.

"Go and find out."

And then, Edward beams like I'm the sun, picks me up in a hug so tight he lifts me from the ground and swirls me around. I snicker. He gently holds my head next to his neck while my legs (and tail) fly around him. My world swirls when he stops.

Edward's hands tenderly encase my face, and he lowers his.

"You are so—how did I get so lucky? You're the best friend _anyone_ could want." I can feel his breath on my nose. He's so close. "You're amazing, Isabella Swan," he whispers. I beam. He takes my hand. As much as I cherish it, I really don't think I need to be there with him, not yet.

So I squeeze his hand to let him know I'm not rejecting the idea, just the timing.

"Edward—this is your journey. Go figure things out with your sister. Get to know each other a little."

He lets go of my hand and stares at me for a second, this Edward-like undecipherable intensity in his eyes. Then, after the briefest of nods, he places a wet kiss on my forehead, and grins.

"You're incredible."

I tilt my head toward Rosalie, but Edward stays put, mulling something over. "And you—you'll be here?"

I smile. "I'll be right here, Edward."

He beams and skips every second step as he runs to his sister. I sit at the edge of the stage and watch Edward hug his sister. They wave at me as they leave the room, I nod back and grin. It feels like the end of an era, Christmas music in speakers, Christmas lights blinking in every corner and everyone having fun, laughing or eating chocolate.

I take off the upper part of my costume (the heat is killing me), bounce off the edge of the stage, take a few pieces of chocolate, and join Peter, Laurent, Tanya and little Irina. I have an answer to Laurent.

I cast a little glance at the wooden door, looking for God knows what, a sign perhaps. There is none.

But tonight feels like the beginning of something wonderful.


	12. In which I Have an Epiphany

"It was not the size or demeanor of the bears that troubled me—they looked almost comically nonaggressive, like four guys who had gotten a Frisbee caught up a tree—but their numbers. Up to that moment it had not occurred to me that bears might prowl in parties. What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die, of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. I would blow my sphincter out my backside like one of those unrolling paper streamers you get at children's parties—I daresay it would even give a merry toot—and bleed to a messy death in my sleeping bag." ― Bill Bryson, _A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail_

: :

_Wednesday, the 22__nd__ of December  
3:54 PM, Emmett, I continue to skim through your Bill Bryson books. And forget Andrew Lloyd Webber. You have a fuck-ton of glorious soundtrack, and then… Ms. Spears? Was it a dare or do you jog with her like I do? We need to talk. _

Emmett, do you even notice that I take my time to write down all those quotes from all those books you own by Bill Bryson? Your favorite author? Oh, you didn't? You noticed only now? That's too bad. I finished reading _A Short History of Nearly Everything _and now I'm starting with the others because who else talks about shitting yourself lifeless?

Sometimes I wonder if my life serves a bigger purpose. Then I use expressions like 'shit yourself lifeless,' and I realize… nope. No, it doesn't.

Yesterday was spent cleaning our house from top to bottom (yeah, Emmett was extremely happy about that), and when we were finished with that, I had the honor of picking a movie for us. They can never agree on a movie, so I oftentimes make the decision for them. I chose _Twelve Angry Men_ (1957), which dad and Emmett really seemed to love. Hey, it's a great movie.

But I had an epiphany today, a real one, and if my diary serves any purpose at all, I am convinced this has to be written here. I had a rather… enlightening conversation with dad a few minutes ago. I went to help him make dinner, and we talked.

Sounds fascinating, huh?

So, since we're having dinner with both Cullen families—the Cullen–Hales and the Cullens—tonight (I can't wait to hear how Edward's meeting with his sister went!), dad wanted to make mom's lasagna and Caesar salad and everything delicious. I offered to help, and he was quite relieved about that. Not that he wouldn't have done the whole thing himself. He would have. But I'd already jogged and packed my stuff and taken my posters down and I'm starting to realize I won't see dad for four and a half months. We've never been apart for so long before.

"Dad?"

He looks up.

"I googled U.S. Marshal Service."

He smiles. "And what did you find?"

"I found that you can't get in unless you're 36 or younger."

"That is true."

"But you're 37."

"I got accepted in the middle of September, three weeks before my birthday," he answers. "What else did you find?"

"It's fiercely competitive." I hesitate. "I'm insanely proud that you got in, dad, but—don't hurt yourself, okay?"

Dad chuckles as if I'd said something entirely too funny. "Why, Bella, are you calling me old?" he asks, and he's smiling. "Why do you think I spent as much time training as I did? I don't want you worrying about me. I wouldn't have gotten in unless they thought I could do it."

I can see the source of my determination. It's dad. He's just like me.

"No, I didn't mean that. I know you more than deserved to get in. I just—you're all we've got, you know? You lost your parents during your teenage years, mom's mother died when we were toddlers, her father was never in the picture… you're all we have."

He's touched by my concern, I can tell. For a moment, he pulls me to his side and squeezes my shoulder.

"It's just training. Nothing is going to happen to me. I promise. I'm still a phone call away, we only need to agree on a time and we can talk whenever I have free time."

"Which is, like, never."

He laughs. "No, I think we'll be able to talk a few times a week."

We resume to chopping. I'm chopping carrots, dad is slicing chicken.

"I can't figure out how you're suddenly so cool about me staying with the Cullens."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Yes, of course you should, but I mean—you were on the verge of shooting Edward when we spent the night in 106, and now you're suddenly cool about me staying with them for over four months. I just don't get it."

"I figured, you two, you're friends, right?"

Unless I can make him magically fall in love with me? Sure.

"Yes."

"And nothing is happening between you beyond that?"

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

Well, that escalated quickly.

"No," I answer. "But someone did ask me out."

"Oh?" He's surprised.

"Yeah. His name is Laurent. He's a senior. Emmett's friend. They have football together."

"Do you like him?"

"He's cool. I don't know him well enough to judge."

"Just be careful, okay?"

"Dad," I remind him. "We can skip The Talk. It was awkward enough the last time."

He smiles. It was.

"Dad?"

"Yes, honey?"

I smile at his term of endearment. "Have you ever felt like something is right under your nose but you never noticed? Like, haven't really paid any attention to it?"

He looks down at himself. "Are you referring to the fact that there's sour cream on my T-shirt?"

I chuckle, watching as he chooses to ignore blob of white on his shirt. "No, I mean, have you had moments when life seems to have passed you by and never got around to taking you with it?"

He pauses, but only for a second. "What brought this on?"

"There's so much I've never noticed before, you know? Like, at school, everyone is so concerned with getting attention from the opposite sex. I never noticed. It's like a giant match-maker's paradise or something. And then, don't take this the wrong way, but I never really thought about you as an individual but only as my dad, as if that's your only purpose. It sounds egoistic, I know, but I just—I never thought about it like that before. I'm only a small part of your life."

"A very important part, Bella."

"No—I didn't mean it like that," I say. "I didn't mean to undermine my importance in your life. Or yours in mine."

"You mean that nothing has really changed, just the way you see them?"

"Yeah," I agree. "That's exactly what I mean."

"We only tend to notice things that matter to us," dad says, smiling without showing his teeth. "I bet you have tons of stuff in your life that you're not writing into that diary of yours."

I feel myself pale. "Have you—have you read it?"

He makes sure to lock eyes with me before answering. "No, Bella, I haven't. You've fallen asleep on it a few times, and I've closed it for you. It's neither my job as your father _or_ as a person to keep tabs on you. I trust you to share with me what you want to share, and I'll return the favor."

"You—you're so amazing, dad."

He laughs, and there are a few premature wrinkles next to his eyes. "You say that like you're surprised." Dad is teasing me, and I love it. "So you perceive things differently now. It's only natural. Do you have something that you barely ever write about in your diary?"

I take a moment to really think about it.

"Clothes, make-up," I say, smiling. "Internet."

Dad looks up from his slicing and smiles. It's so genuine. "See? We only notice things we care about. Clearly you don't care enough about what you wear to write about it. Maybe one day you will. We all have roles in our lives, and the roles change. What matters to us, that changes with us. It doesn't mean you aren't true to yourself, it just means you're growing as a person."

Holy shit, my dad is a fucking Dalai Lama in disguise.

"Dad?"

"Honey?"

"Has it ever bothered you that I'm not like a normal girl?"

"Was there a manual about being a girl that I missed?" he asks. "A normal one?"

"You didn't get it? Damn. I knew there was a reason I lack any sense of propriety."

He chuckles. "No, Bella, normal or not, I think you're wonderful." And he gives me this sincere, almost silly-looking grin, looking completely serious at the same time, and I take a moment to really think about his words and the truth behind them. I used to think when he told me there's nothing wrong with the way I look, that I look nice, whatever, that he was just trying to reassure an insecure teenager, just to make me feel better about myself, but for the first time, I realize he actually means it. He's not trying to reassure. He's not trying to be nice, either.

How come it never occurred to me that how I look simply... doesn't matter? That it's possible to just—not notice? Dad just said so himself: we only notice the things that matter to us. So maybe, he doesn't even notice? Like, he knows me as a person and still likes me for who I am?

I feel like I just discovered Easter Island. It's mysterious and exciting and I want to know more about the mo'ai on it.

Is this what Edward was trying to imply? That, yes, there's how you look, but then there's how you behave and think and act and react—that should come to the equation, too, right? I always notice those things when I observe other people, I always do. But I've felt like it doesn't apply to me, that I should've been born pretty so that maybe mom would've shown more affection toward me. But what if it wasn't because of that at all? What if she was simply not the type of person to show affection, period?

Okay, no, a question mark.

But still. What if it has absolutely nothing to do with my looks? I could've born just like her, wide eyes and pretty curves and two dimples (I only have one), and we would've still been different because my appearance still wouldn't have been my priority?

Well, fuck.

Is that what they mean? That if you get to know someone, really know them, your personality becomes such a big part of who you are that how you look is a mere technicality?

Is that it?

That's all I've been so anxious and stressed about?

That's it?

Well, fuck.

That was anticlimactic.

And I burst into laughter. I literally burst into laughter at nothing at all, grasping a carrot as I put down my knife, and I just laugh like there's no tomorrow. Tears streaming down my face, clutching onto my stomach, crouching over the kitchen counter, not really noticing how my dad feels about my burst of feelings because I have tears in my eyes kind of laughter. I laugh. I'm so liberated, like the weight of the world has just been pulled off my shoulders, like I could fly like an eagle or a sparrow or fuck—superman! Whoever the fuck!

It doesn't matter! It really, seriously, truly doesn't!

He doesn't see it because he genuinely doesn't _care_! And people who are _worth_ getting to know _won't_ _care_!

I didn't discover Easter Island. I discovered a fucking world right now!

"Dad," I say finally, wiping my face into the sweater I'm wearing. "Dad, I just had an epiphany."

I raise my head to look at him, and he's staring at me. He's amused and he's grinning, but at the same time, he's got a faint frown on his face.

"But I—I always tell you you're wonderful. Haven't you heard me?"

"I heard you, but I didn't listen, dad," I say. "I didn't _listen_."

I _elated_. If I want to, I can become the best fucking actress the world has ever seen! They'll write about my appearance, then get to know me, and if I'm a decent enough human being who isn't afraid of hard work, it won't matter at all. It won't _matter_. They'll see it, they'll comment, and they'll get over it.

They'll get over it.

"Wait," dad says. "All those times I've told you there's nothing wrong with the way you look—you never believed me? Not once?"

"No, dad," I reply, with that dopey grin of mine.

He looks horrified, there's no other word for that semi-gasping expression.

"But, Bella—did you not think I meant it? Did you think I was lying to you?"

"You don't get it, dad. I wasn't in a position in my life to _listen_ to you. This has nothing to do with how you've raised me and everything to do with how I simply did not _understand_ what you _meant_. You could've told me a hundred times yesterday, and I would've thought you were trying to reassure me. But you're not. You genuinely think so."

He's confused. "Of course I do, Bella. You're such a wonderful girl. I couldn't have asked for a more original and genuine girl if I created you myself."

"You _did_ create me, dad."

"I did, huh?" He becomes a little bashful. "And I did good. You're wonderful, Bella. You are."

I grin and curtsy. "Thank you, dad. So are you."

Fuck, no, I'm not going to burn my diary, I cherish this memory too much. I'll read it every day if I have to so that I remember what's important in life.

And Emmett, now that I know dad knows I'm writing this, I have no doubt you're aware as well. So if you've read it but never commented, I think I have to admit I don't give you enough credit. Thank you for not teasing me mercilessly.

But the doorbell rang—the Cullen's must've arrived! I'll continue later.

* * *

**A/N:** Gentle snow is falling and the sea ice is yearning for me to put my skates on. I'll see if my brothers are up to skating to the isles.

You're all amazing. :)


	13. Secrets? Just the Incredible Glowworm

"I mused for a few moments on the question of which was worse, to lead a life so boring that you are easily enchanted or a life so full of stimulus that you are easily bored. But then it occurred to me that musing is a pointless waste of anyone's time, and instead I went off to see if I could find a Baby Ruth candy bar, a far more profitable exercise." — Bill Bryson, _The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America_

: :

_Tuesday, the 28__th__ of December  
5:13 AM, my God, it's early. But it's proven to be incredibly difficult to just casually open my diary while being around Edward. I no longer care that Emmett has read this. Jesus, what if Edward found my diary? I'd die. I'd just… throw myself onto the carpet and play opossum. It would be a reasonable enough thing to do._

It's been a week since I last wrote anything in here, and what a week it was. I've taken my diary out to write here twice, and twice, Edward has found me from our "parlor." There isn't a force in the world that will make me show this diary to him, so I managed to sneak my diary away.

I thought I was ready to have life thrown upside down within a day. In a way, I was. I really was. But life with the Cullens, it's been quite something to get used to. Firstly, right now, I'm sprawled on a comfy couch in the basement, in Edward's parlor. That's right, he's got his own _floor_. When I lift my head, the door to Edward's room is in front of me. It's open. In the direction of my feet, it's "my" room, and there is no door. There literally isn't a door in front of it. Not even a doorframe.

What was I saying about not having a lock on my door? It's like a life lesson. Oh, you poor thing, whining about a lockless door? We'll give you a door-less _room_. That'll teach you.

It's not that I mind, Edward is really courteous and always says my name before rounding the corner, and never rounds the corner unless I answer. I just think it's funny. One of these days, I'll be stark naked and he'll be all sleepy and heading to the bathroom and we'll all be traumatized. At least it's a bathroom with one door to the parlor. Having a two-door bathroom would be a disaster waiting to happen.

Anyhow, I've skipped a week, and I better get to writing about it before Edward decides to wake up… which is in about five hours. More time for me to—finally—catch up with my own life.

During our dinner, Esme asked me—rather surreptitiously—if I was wearing make-up because I was "glowing." I think I coughed out my spleen _and_ lungs while laughing and trying to decipher what she meant. And when I did, I beamed a mega-watt smile and notified her that I'd discovered that the Earth is round.

Who woulda thought?

I don't know, I just feel so much more comfortable with myself now. I mean, there are things about me that I can change, things I can't, and all I can do is be the best version of myself I can be, right? So I guess I really was "glowing" because Emmett asked in a rather serious tone if I'd had my teeth whitened. I laughed myself silly.

Is this the difference an attitude makes?

Edward kept looking at me with a rather unnerving gaze, kind of like he did when he kissed my temple and appeared to be on the verge of a realization. He's got that exact look on his face, but I can't really find the time or place to ask, not even about his sister. But the dinner is great. Dad and Edward's parents seem to have forgotten (or agreed to forget) my dad wasn't too civil with their son the last time, and dinner is fun. Jasper's parents are concerned about feeding my brother—I try to stifle my laughter—before Emmett announces he isn't picky at all and can cook for himself if that's a problem. Ah, Emmett. I don't think that's what Jasper's parents mean. They're just concerned about how much meat you'd have to cook to make a person look like you.

Not a whole lot, actually. That's just the way he is. Unlike my body, his seems to convert energy into muscle with no effort at all.

You lucky bastard.

In the early morning of 23rd, dad, Emmett and I sit in the living room and open our gifts. Mom sent me a Dell laptop and Emmett an iPad. Emmett claimed that he wasn't aware of this when he violently broke our computer. I don't know. I wish I could just—do so many things differently with mom. I want to thank her for being who she was and apologize for calling her so rarely or forgetting to call. I want to tell her I love her.

I wish she were here.

I got a quality Swiss Army Knife for dad and a T-shirt (as per usual) for Emmett. (He got me one with the sentence, 'If I wanted to listen to an asshole… I'd fart.' That is _such_ an Emmett thing to get me.) Dad got me a necklace. It's made of silver and looks modest with a tiny little heart attached to it. The chain is quite long and it reaches just above my belly button. I love it.

It's the first time in my life I've gotten jewelry as a present.

Jasper's father, Mitchell Hale, agreed to give dad a lift to the airport before dropping me off at the Cullens and taking Emmett to their place, so we haul our luggage to the trunk and say goodbyes to our house. Jasper's dad waits for us in his Volkswagen Jetta—no, I am not a car expert; Jasper's dad sells cars and Emmett is eager to listen all about them—as we trudge together toward check-in.

Emmett and I watch and wait. Soon enough (considering this pre-Christmas environment), dad has his boarding pass and we're walking toward hand luggage control. We're silent until we all stop in front of one of the lines and look at each other.

"So I guess this is it," dad says, pursing his lips in a line. "Give me your phones."

Oh-kay.

He installs a number before returning them. "That's Al's phone number. Al Stephens, you met him. If anything—anything at all—happens which you feel uncomfortable talking about with Edward's or Jasper's parents, he's the person I want you to contact. Alright? He knows about this and he'll answer. In case of an emergency, contact him immediately. Am I clear?"

Dad waits to hear a concrete 'yes' from our mouths, so we comply.

"Good." He seems to deflate, or gather himself for a speech, but he opens and closes his mouth before enveloping Emmett into a hug, and then me. I get a whiff of dad because he just smells like home. I'll miss him so much.

"Bella, if anyone at school gives you any trouble at all, tell Emmett. I'm only starting to realize how good you are at acting like nothing is wrong when that's clearly not the case, and I don't want you to play a hero. When we speak on the phone, I want you to tell me as it is. No embellishing. Alright?"

"No-one is giving me trouble, dad."

"I know, but I need to make sure you know that when you're facing problems, you need to tell me. Tell Emmett." Dad looks at him. "Right?"

"Duh," Emmett says with an exaggerated expression, and the tension is broken. We laugh.

"I need you two to take care of each other."

"We will," Emmett says.

"I'll miss you guys." Dad throws the strap of his grey laptop bag over his shoulder. I hug him once more before he joins the line and starts to take his laptop out. My God, he's so young. The slender woman in front of him drops her purse, dad picks it up, and I swear, the woman becomes bashful when her eyes land on him. He's quite the catch. I think Bradley Cooper is, what, 38 years old? My dad is _younger_ than him, and I _like_ Bradley Cooper.

My God, that's disturbing.

"Have women always been that way with him?" Emmett asks, just before we turn around and start walking back to the parking lot.

"I've never noticed," I reply, still slightly baffled. "Emmett?"

"Yeah?"

I take a breath. "Have you read my diary?"

He's stifling a smile, but nods. At least he's honest. "Are you mad?"

"I don't know. I kind of figured you'd read it. I was just surprised you've never written an entry."

"Do you want me to?"

"God, no," I answer. "So what did you think of it?"

"You're funny."

"I'm being serious," I reply, smacking his forearm.

"What? I am being serious!" he answers in defense. "I am! And I—it was illuminating. Seeing you from your point of view, me from yours, it's pretty different. I've got to say, your memory for dialogue is pretty phenomenal. Why do you write dialogues into it?"

I shrug. "I kind of feel like I'm practicing memorizing lines for a performance, so I make an effort to remember."

"That's pretty cool."

"So what else did you find?"

"I never knew you're so insecure. Like, I always thought you were sarcastic or whatever, but I don't think you realize how good of an actress you are."

"But, uh, can you please not tell Edward? I'll do anything you want, just don't tell him."

He sort of looks at me like I grew a second head. "Like there's a point in that. That guy is so far gone it's not even funny."

My stomach does a somersault, but I don't think he meant it like that. "He doesn't even like me, Emmett."

"Bella, I just told you you're a better actress than anyone would think. Put the two and two together."

I don't get Emmett, because Edward doesn't like me like that, he's never said so, he's always so casual about touching and stuff, ugh. I don't think that's what Emmett is implying, that's insane.

"Aren't you mad that I made fun of you in it?"

He shrugs like it's the least of his worries. "You're my sister. I make fun of you all the time. That's what siblings do. It's not like we mean it."

We're now at the parking lot and I start to approach Mitchell Hale's car, but Emmett stops me.

"I would like to know one thing, though."

"Okay."

"What exactly did Michael Newton do to you? There was no mention of it in your diary. I mean, it's pretty obvious he did something vile and disgusting, but illegal, too?" he asks, and I'm surprised by the lack of height difference between us. Emmett is only a few inches taller than me. "What did he do?"

"Emmett, no."

"No, what? I deserve to know."

"No."

"I'm your brother, Bella. If he abused you in any way—I will _kill_ that son of a bitch."

"No."

"Just tell me, Bella. How hard can it be? Just a few words."

"No, Emmett."

"Fuck, can you just use words other than no?"

"I refuse to talk about it," I retort. "Is that better? I don't want to speak about it. Ever."

"Did he—did he rape you?"

I hesitate.

"Fuck! He did, didn't he?"

I huff, avoiding his eyes. "Not exactly."

"Fuck, Bella, that's such a shitty answer. You do know that rape isn't only penetration how we usually think of it, but oral and anal, too? With that knowledge, did he rape you?"

I avoid his eyes. "I'm not really eager to talk about it."

"Fuck, Bella!" Emmett lets out a string of profanities, and he gets so worked up the by-passers ask me if "this guy" is giving me trouble and if I'm okay. I assure them I am. Emmett takes a very deep breath that is somewhat shaky. "Bella, you can't admit shit like that and expect me to let it go! When? How? Where was I? Why did you never say anything? I'll fucking kill that son of a bitch."

"It's been years, Emmett. I don't—you don't need to hear this shit. Just let it go."

"Years, Bella, _years_?! Not once did you mention—fuck!"

"Calm down, Emmett. Please. Can you just… just calm down."

Emmett tears at his hair and let out a roar so loud and heartbreaking a passing mother gives us an alarming glance as she covers up her daughter's ears. I mouth an apology.

About a hundred feet from us, Mitchell Hale steps out of his car and yells, asking if we're okay. I nod. Emmett doesn't want to let this go, but at this moment, he's got no other choice.

He's in front, I'm in the back, and Emmett is clearly trying not to show how furious he is.

"Mr. Hale? Can you drop me off at the Cullens as well? There's something I need to do over there."

"Sure, do you want me to wait for you?"

Emmett gives me the briefest of glances. "No. I'll walk." He makes an effort to continue talking about cars, and Mitchell Hale is only too happy to comply, so I'm left with my own thoughts, and I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm so afraid of. Telling him won't change what happened, but I'm afraid of what he'll do with the knowledge. I don't want him to beat Michael Newton up again. He's not worth it. I don't want Emmett to do something that would ruin his future.

And I just… I just don't want to tell him. Or anyone.

I'm not prepared to go here right now, but he won't let it go before I do, so I'll just need to… convince him not to go there.

We thank Mr. Hale for giving us a lift. Emmett takes my suitcase and puts it down on the porch before standing in front of me. He leans against the front door.

"I'm not leaving until you speak, Bella. I don't care how vile or disgusting or embarrassing or hard it is. I don't care if you scream or cry or do both. I need to know."

"Please, can you just leave it?"

"Why? So you could go back to your comfort zone where pretending it didn't happen is the easiest way out? No. You need to speak to someone, and you can trust me."

"You can't make me, Emmett," I plead. "Please don't make me."

"Bella," he says, eyes locked with mine. "You need this. You can't just hold it in a cage and pretend it's not there. I might not be the most sensitive of guys, but I'm your brother. I want to hear what screwed up your self-esteem. I want to help you."

"My self-esteem was screwed up before that, Emmett."

"See? You're talking."

I close my eyes.

"Please. You can trust me, Bella."

"I know I can trust you."

"Then what?" he asks, and he's frustrated when the front door opens and Esme greets us with a sweet smile.

"Just in time, Bella! So lovely to see you both again. I'm making a welcome lunch for you."

Both Edward and his dad approach the door as well, and they're all just so darn happy about me being there and I can almost feel Emmett's frustration behind me and it's all so messed up because I don't want to be rude and dismiss their efforts but Emmett has almost convinced me it might help if I talk. The timing is horrible.

"Is anything wrong?" Edward's dad asks, looking at Emmett and me and back again. I let out an audible breath. I feel like I'm visibly shrinking when I do.

"That's amazing, Esme, but I—we, Edward, could Emmett borrow some of your sports clothes? There's something we need to do."

Edward frowns, looking back and forth between Emmett and me, and he's incredibly confused. "Uh, sure?"

Edward's mom asks, "Do you guys need a lift? It's hailing like crazy out there."

I decline, and Emmett squeezes my shoulder. Before we can take in just how rude we are being, we've both changed into comfortable jogging clothes (Emmett's are too long for him) and we're out the door. It's windy. It's cold. But there's no other way.

"It's disconcerting how well you know me, really," Emmett says as we choose a random direction and just run silently for a while.

"I didn't mean to—I don't mean to force you into this. I do think it'd help."

I purse my lips in a line. "You didn't—let's just do this, okay?"

"Alright." He tosses me a sideways glance. "First of all, you've made so many jokes about Michael Newton not wanting you 'even if you laid naked on his doorstep.' I've heard it myself. It makes no sense."

"Self-defense mechanism." I shrug. "Nobody suspects anything you joke about stuff like that."

He pauses. "When did it happen?"

I sigh. "I was in eighth grade," I start. "May, three years ago. I arrived home crying, you knew something was up. You actually beat him up afterwards, you just didn't know what he'd done or how much that helped me."

"Fuck, just—_fuck_! If I'd known at the time, I would've killed him, Bella. _Killed_ him."

"I know."

"How come nobody knows?"

"Ah, you know, humiliation and guilt and shame and shit."

"Please, please don't tell me you thought you deserved it."

"I don't know. I was weak, Emmett. My middle school experience wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. I was weak, and an easy target, and I felt so guilty for not having the guts to defy him or the courage to tell you or dad and I just… it's not something I want to relive."

"Shit like that is never your fault, Bella. Never."

"I'm aware. But knowing it and believing it, it's not the same."

Emmett is fuming. We continue to jog as my eyesight gets slightly blurry from time to time but I swallow it back and just jog. I like Emmett's way of working things out. I do.

"Rape is one of the most under-reported violent crimes, did you know that?" Emmett spits, not looking at me. "And fuck, I never thought. You're my _sister_. How did I not notice? How long did he abuse you?"

"Please don't use that first word. It creeps me out."

He looks at me for the longest moment, and I can see he understands. "Alright."

"All the way through middle school. It wasn't only him, though, but everyone else was harmless. At first, it was just the lunch money. I could go without eating lunch, whatever. Then there were little accidents they caused, putting a leg in front of me, sticky-notes on my bag, whatever. I didn't actually see it coming because if I had, I would've avoided it."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know. That doesn't change anything. It still happened."

"It changes _everything_, Bella," Emmett insists. "It was not your fault."

"I know."

"Shit like that is _never_ your fault."

"I know."

"I just wish—I could've helped you, Bella. If I'd known, I would've scared him away. Hell, I would've beaten everyone up. This wouldn't have happened to you."

"You don't know that, Emmett. Don't you dare start blaming yourself. It happened. It might've even happened if you knew how vile he really is. There's no way of knowing," I reply. "And you just said so yourself, I'm good at keeping shit from people. I didn't want you to know I was really just a vulnerable little girl with barely any friends. And so I never told you how it was."

"I wish you had."

"I wish I had, too."

"You should've told us before any of that shit happened with him."

"I was humiliated."

"I would've done something."

"I was humiliated, Emmett. It's not really something you just mention in the middle of a conversation. I didn't want to admit how weak I was."

"You're anything but weak, Bella," Emmett insisted. "I just—I always thought you were a bit of a loner on purpose, like, those middle school girls didn't really get you or whatever, but I never thought… it never occurred to me to ask if anyone was giving you serious trouble."

"It's not like the entire population of middle school hated me, Emmett. They didn't. Yeah, I wasn't too sociable, but I still got along with most of my classmates. It wasn't living hell or whatever. There were only particular groups of people I had to watch out for."

We've already turned back towards the Cullens' house.

"How did it happen? Do I want to know?"

"Do you?"

"If you—if you feel comfortable telling me. You do know all of this, it's confidential, right? I'll never mention this to anyone."

"I know."

"Was it—did it happen a lot?"

"No. Just once."

"Did he—did he—I mean," Emmett stammers. "Rear end… or…" he motions at his face, and even thought this conversation couldn't be about a more serious topic, I chuckle.

"Now _that's_ a description to die for," I reply, but my there's no humor in my laughter. "And no," I reply, motion at my face and grimace.

He takes a sharp breath. "Was he alone?"

"No. There was Jared and some other guy. I never knew his name."

"Did they all…"

"No. Just him."

"Fuck, why would anyone—fuck! That's so fucked up." Emmett is still struggling to hold composure.

"He was probably trying to show his superiority or whatever."

"How did they make sure you'd stay there?"

"They held me."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Were they sober?"

"Hardly."

"So how did you escape?"

"I bit him."

"Oh yeah?"

"Drew blood, too," I answer. "Hell, he might still have my tooth-prints."

"And then?"

"I struggled out of their grip and ran. I got home, you asked what happened and all I could get out was 'Newton' and you'd figured he'd done something particularly nasty, mumbled something about football practice, and as I later found out, you beat him up. You just didn't know."

"And then you got that stomach flu and didn't show your face at school for a week."

"No." I let out a dry laugh. "Stomach flu? Hell no."

"What? You were pretending?"

"No," I answer. "I wasn't pretending. I just vomited my guts out for two days, it just wasn't stomach flu. I didn't do it intentionally, I was just—nauseated, whatever. Kind of, like, you know how people who've been physically abused want to keep on scrubbing themselves to get clean but never really feel clean? Kind of like that. Weirdly enough, it seemed to help. After two days of retching, I felt better. Eating was an arduous task at first, but I figured I was fine otherwise. I now think about it as if it happened to someone else. It's easier."

"Just say the word and I'll kill him."

"Emmett, don't. Don't beat him up or whatever I can see you planning. He's not worth it. I know you have a decent chance of getting into college with a football scholarship. I couldn't live with myself if what happened to me ruined your chances."

"I just—he's so goody-goody at school and I knew he could be nasty, but I never in a million years would I have thought—"

"Emmett." I repeat. "Promise me you won't do anything to him."

"Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not defending him, I'm protecting _you_. Can you imagine how guilty I'd feel if colleges didn't accept you because of me? Promise me."

"He'd deserve it."

"Emmett."

"What if I made it seem like an accident? Or what if you couldn't tell who caused it?"

"Emmett. Promise me."

We're now in front of the Cullens house, we're both dripping wet from the mixture of hail and sleet, my shoes are drenched. Emmett is just as wet. But we stop, and we look at each other, and I really need him not to ruin his future. If I'm able to put this behind me, Emmett needs to be, too.

"I can't believe you never told me."

"I can. What I can't believe is that I actually just told you all of this," I reply. "Just please don't start acting like I'm this fragile little sister to be pitied who can't take care of herself. Because I can. I didn't tell you all of this so that you'd change your perception of me or whatever."

"Bella, you've managed to move through such deep shit all by yourself, you've kept this to yourself for _years_, you're about as far from fragile as one could get. You're, like, fucking amazing, how could anyone…"

"Fucking amazing?" I laugh. "I want that in writing. I want that on a T-shirt. 'I'm like fucking amazing, don't mess with me.'"

"Consider it done."

I smile but soon get serious. "Emmett. Promise."

"I can't. I want to have full liberty to accidentally give Michael Newton a fatal concussion on the football field."

"Promise."

The front door opens, and Esme's head peeks out. "Guys, you're soaking! It's freezing out here! Come on inside and warm up."

"Just a minute!" I yell back.

"You can continue your conversation inside. We don't need you catching pneumonia."

"We won't! We'll be right there."

She shakes her head, but closes the door. We walk closer to it.

"On one condition," Emmett says, and I know he means it.

"Shoot."

"You'll see a psychologist."

"What kind of a condition is that? Why is that necessary?"

"Bella, this shit you just told me explains _so_ _much_. So fucking much, Bella. You have no reason to be as insecure as you are, and this shit, it's like a fucking revelation—of course you're insecure, you've been carrying a fucking trauma with you for years."

"I don't think you could've fit any more cussing into your speech if you tried."

"I don't care. You need to see a psychologist. I'll help you pay for one."

"What if I've moved past it?"

"Then seeing a psychologist shouldn't be a problem at all, now should it? Either you find one, or I'll take the liberty of doing whatever I need to do with Newton. You have no idea how much self-restraint it will take not to smash his nose into the back of his skull the next time I see him."

"Welcome to my world."

Emmett snorts a laugh, we climb a few steps onto the Cullens' front porch, and Emmett grips my shoulders with both of his hands. He's serious again. And he just stares at me, not saying anything, and again, I'm startled to realize how small our height difference is.

"Alright, Emmett." I sigh, pursing my lips in a line. "I'll find one."

He envelops me into a bone crushing hug, and even though we're both so incredibly cold and wet, it's comfort and assurance and so much hope. I feel tears prickle my eyes, and I don't really want to hold them back. I don't care.

"Thanks for trusting me."

I nod. I know he can feel it. He pulls back, but doesn't let go of my shoulders as he looks at me, and I'd usually be embarrassed to cry in front of him, but I don't care right now. I just don't care. I'm a girl, he has to deal with that fact one day. Why not today?

"There's one more thing."

I nod.

"You need to tell Edward."

I want to argue because the thought terrifies me, but I know he's right, in a way.

"If ever in your life you meet a guy who's put off by what you just told me, or who'd humiliate you because of it, that guy doesn't deserve you. Am I clear?"

He sounds like dad, and it's kind of creepy but I'm so startled by his words of wisdom.

I nod.

"But I don't think that guy is Edward. Jesus, when he finds out, I'm pretty sure he'll help me hire an assassin. Unless he gets his hands on a gun and shoots the poor bastard beforehand."

"Hardy har, har, Emmett," I answer, smiling through my tears. "He cares a lot, I know, but he doesn't like me."

"You're so perceptive in some ways and just fucking blind in others, you know?" Emmett says, and he's grinning. "What did he do when Laurent asked you out? Was he jealous?" His voice is teasing.

"Emmett! Of course he wasn't! He's my best friend."

"I bet he got all angry and shit."

"Emmett!"

"Come on, I'll show you."

Edward is standing in the corridor, looking very concerned, and when he sees my tear-stained face, he steps really close, places his hand on my back, leans close to my ear and whispers, "Are you alright?" I shiver, lock eyes with him and nod.

Emmett raises his eyebrows at me, but I shake my head at him. You can't really draw far-fetched conclusions from the fact that Edward cares a lot and is really touchy feely for a guy. That's just the way he is. Nothing to do with me.

"Edward, can I borrow your clothes for a while longer? I'll return them at Jasper's Christmas party."

"Sure."

Edward's dad offers to give my brother a lift, but Emmett declines. When he's almost out of the front door, he winks at me and says, "Good luck on your date with Laurent."

He grins at me, and he's gone.

Edward stiffens and withdraws his hand. "Still going out with him?"

"I figured if a guy is interested in me, why not?"

Edward runs a hand through his hair, tearing at them a little, and grimaces. Like a real cringe. I'm convinced Emmett is wrong, I mean, Edward has never said anything, but I don't know.

"Edward—I know you're my best friend and want to protect me and stuff, but I've known Laurent since spring. He's a good guy."

"It's not that."

"Then what's the problem?"

He looks me straight in the eye, and he's so solemn. "What if you two start dating?"

I laugh. He's ridiculous. "Then we'll date and get married and have babies with gorgeous olive skin."

If Edward reacted like my father, this would be the place where his face would go from white to beetroot purple in nanoseconds. Instead, the tips of his ears redden.

"And where would that leave me?"

"You'll meet your Scarlett Johansson, you know, a girl with gorgeous curves and an honest heart and have your own gorgeous babies."

The answer not only displeases him, he seems quite appalled by the very idea.

"Honestly, Edward." I can't help my snicker. "Are you gay?"

He seems horrified. "What?"

"It's totally okay if you are—really."

"I'm not gay."

"It's okay, Edward," I pat his forearm and start to take my suitcase, but Edward takes it from me.

"I'm not gay, Bella," he insists.

"You just made an appalled face at Scarlett Johansson, Edward. I'm female, and I'd _totally_ have her babies."

"Are _you_ gay?"

"No," I answer. "But if Scarlett Johansson asked me to turn for her, I totally would." In an attempt to be just as casual about touching as he is, I draw my thumb across his jaw, and the complexion is somewhat rough. His eyes search mine, but his lips tug into a smile. "Calm down, okay? It's not like I'm going to marry the first guy that I kiss. You take my father's request to protect me way too seriously. I can take care of myself, okay?"

"I know that." For a second, he just stares at me before yelling, "Mom, I'll show Bella her room!"

"Sure thing, honey, just don't forget there's lunch waiting for you."

"We won't," he says and opens a door that I previously thought would lead to a closet. But no. A straight staircase, covered by a soft blue carpet, leads downstairs, into a spacious room with a large TV, the most comfortable-looking couch, a D-shaped table and a stereo system. It screams _male_, and I love it.

"Please tell me this is my room," I say in awe. "I'll never move out. You'll never get rid of me. Ever."

Edward is trying to stifle a smile. "I think that can be arranged."

"So it's not my room? Damn. What a waste."

He laughs. "C'mon."

There's an opening in the wall in the distant left corner of the room, sort of like an arch, and passing through it, there's a humble beige room with a double-bed and a table. It's modest, like my own room, and lacks any personal touch. It's minimalistic and anonymous.

I love it.

Edward puts my suitcase down. "You're allowed to change everything. Cover the walls with naked pictures of Johnny Depp. Whatever you want."

I snort and laugh. "If I had naked pictures of Johnny Depp, he'd be on the ceiling."

"Why?"

"So he'd be the first and last thing I see."

"You're kidding."

"It's Johnny Depp," I shrug. "You don't make fun of him being naked."

Edward shakes his head, but he's amused. "So do you like the room?"

"It's perfect," I reply, smiling, and Edward seems relieved. "Can I see yours, too?"

"Uh, sure," he agrees, but then his eyes land on my wet self, and they widen. "Oh, shit, I forgot. Are you cold? Would you like to have a shower? I'll tell mom not to hurry with lunch."

I spend some time trying to figure out how Edward's shower works. I forgot my own hygiene products (of course this happens to me), so I use Edward's black and stylish-looking Clear Men anti-dandruff shampoo. It claims to have a mint aroma, I just think it smells like Edward.

I hope this isn't a fancy and expensive product, because I want this. I don't care I have no dandruff.

Did I just say I want to smell like a man? Why yes, I think I did. But not just any man, Edward.

Do you know what the best part about having short hair is? Shower is quick. Hair dries quickly.

I cross the parlor (second living room? I've never heard of a living room being casually called "parlor" before) and opposite of my door-less doorframe-less gap arch thing (hey, what am I supposed to say? there is no door, neither is there a frame) is Edward's door.

How luxurious! He's got a door!

The door is open, but I knock anyway, and there's no reply. I don't want to snoop around, so I turn to look for him, but he already walks downstairs, taking two steps at a time.

"Go ahead." He motions at his room.

I cannot tell the color of the walls because every inch is covered with posters. Pictures of rock bands, of bands I've never heard of, of scantily–clad actresses, of nature. The overall impression is that his walls are black-and-white, even though they're not. Not really. The opposite wall is hidden behind shelves stacked with books; there's Stephen King and Dan Brown and other mystery-thriller writers.

There's no sign of Christmas in his room.

It feels contradictory. He's just so incredibly sweet and humble, and then his room screams alpha male. I love it, though.

And? Edward has a king size bed. I want to run and jump right into it, so I do just that, with my arms open and face pressed against the pillows. I turn myself ninety degrees, swirling around.

"Oh my God, Edward, can I sleep here? Look!" I lie horizontally. "I can be sideways, and I still have room to stretch! This is uh–mazing." I look back at him, and rest my head on my hand. Edward is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, just watching me. He's tall. I'm sure if he lifted his hands, he could easily put his palm against the ceiling. His grey sweatshirt compliments his broad shoulders and lean chest. Defined jaw, shadow of a stubble, strong eyebrows, sharp gaze—and I realize, he looks a few years older than seventeen. Hell, he _acts_ older.

I mean, I'm a girl and it's difficult for me to discuss feelings without being sarcastic. Is that because I've grown up with dad and Emmett and Jasper? But Edward, he's just so mature, his attitude and behavior and yes, looks. I don't know any other guys my age who'd be so casual about insanely embarrassing stuff, or who'd admit to having fears like stage fright.

I feel like I won the lottery when he decided to sit next to me in Biology and made me realize how insecure I am.

He's an amazing dude, and yet, there he stands, completely at ease watching me watch him.

"You seem different," he admits, still leaning against the wall.

I smile. "Good different or bad different?"

"Good," he answers. "Definitely good. I can't pinpoint it exactly, just something different in your stance. You seem at ease with yourself, like you reached a point of truce in your mind." He doesn't take his eyes off me, and it unnerves me. "What changed?"

"I had an epiphany."

"About?"

I shrug. "Myself."

"So you finally decided you're amazing?"

I laugh. It's loud and carefree. "Yes, Edward," I answer. "I decided I'm amazing."

He smiles, and it's pearly and white and so warm. "Good."

I just smile at him. "So," I say. "Can I move into your room?"

"I, uh," he answers, rubbing his neck. "We can switch rooms if you want."

"No, Edward! Hell no. I was just kidding. I would never take your room away from you. I might be, however, tempted to sleep with you every once in a while."

He sort of freezes before relaxing, realizing it's just one of my jokes. He shakes his head, chuckling.

"You're absurd."

"I am," I agree, letting my eyes linger on the posters: one in particular stands out, right next to the doorway.

He has a poster of which actress? Scarlett Johansson herself. I stand up to examine it closer. It's in black-and-white. She's sitting in a white blouse with black bra peeking underneath it. She's semi-pouting, one of those pouts that's completely ridiculous when mere mortals attempt to intimidate it.

What can I say? She's a beautiful creature.

Edward walks up to me and put a gentle hand on my back to move me out of his room. "I'm sorry, Bella."

"What for? You didn't do anything."

"I know how you feel about appearance and—I probably seem like such a hypocrite."

"Not at all," I reply. "Come on, Edward. I'm not allergic to beautiful people. I can ogle at prettiness just like everyone else," I defy. "It's not like we're defined by that."

"Fuck," he curses, and his mile-wide grin is completely unexpected. "Finally!"

"What?"

"I could just—" He encases my face in his hands, and God, it looks like he wants to kiss me, but then he kisses my forehead and I let out a shaky breath. Why does he have such an effect on me? It exhilarates and unnerves me simultaneously.

"Edward—how did you meeting with Rosalie go? Was it worth it that I convinced her to come?"

"Was it worth it? Are you kidding me?" I must've done something right, because I get one of his crushing hugs where I get to put my head in the crook of his neck and take in the smell that is Edward.

Apparently, he is doing the same, because he pulls back slightly, and then tilts my head toward him as he runs his fingers through my damp hair and sniffs it.

"Bella…" My name on his lips is almost a growl.

"Please tell me it wasn't some cream in your shampoo bottle that will make my hair fall out in fifteen minutes."

He sort of snort-snickers. "You used my shampoo."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I just forgot my own and—"

"Bella," he growls again. "It's hot."

I laugh. "Now that is definitely not a word to describe me."

"Really," he repeats. "It's hot. I feel like I've peed on you."

"Aw, and here I thought it was a lovely scent."

"I mean, like dogs do to show it's their property."

"I'm not a piece of property, Edward."

"I don't know, it smells better on you than it does on me," he replies, leaning forward until his nose touches the side of my neck. "Definitely better on you."

Is he trying to make me attack him? If he is… it's working. I'm turned on. Hey, it's Edward, you know? Let him sniff your neck and tell me you're not turned on.

Yes, Emmett. I don't know how much Edward would like to sniff your neck, but you could always ask, right?

I clear my throat. "Weren't we, uh, supposed to have lunch upstairs?"

He snaps out of it and pulls back, but his eyes are still slightly glazed over. "Right."

"Will you tell me about your meeting with Rosalie?"

He nods. "After lunch, alright?" We reach the dining room where Edward's dad is reading a medical book. "Dad already boasted about how much you're able to eat, so mom can't wait to stuff you with every recipe she can think of."

Esme carries potato casserole to the table. "No problem at all. Girls your age shouldn't be afraid to eat."

"Oh, I'm in love with food. No problem at all."

She chuckles.

It's a comfortable lunch. They're interested in how much I like my room and what I like to do in my leisure time and what I like to eat and if getting my own house key after Christmas is alright and how well I'm coping. They're tactful and warm-hearted.

Esme keeps looking at me in wonder. "I've never seen a person eat as much as you do, Bella."

"Do you keep your eyes closed when Edward eats?"

She laughs. "I've never seen a girl eat that much."

"What can I say? It's a gift. It's one of my two talents."

"Oh, really? What's the other one?"

"I have a spectacular heart rate."

They laugh.

When we've all eaten, Edward's father asks if he could speak to Edward and me. I feel like I've been caught robbing the bank, that's how nervous those words make me, but he assures us it's nothing bad.

Yikes.

"I just want to remind you, Edward, and make sure you both know that we want you to keep the basement door open. We trust you, and we know nothing would ever happen between you two, but we want it open just in case. Trust but verify. So whenever you two are home, we want the basement door open. Day or night."

Oh, wow. 'We know nothing would ever happen?' That is incredibly encouraging to hear. Has he spoken to Edward and he's assured him it's purely platonic? I feel faint. It's nothing I didn't already figure out, but to hear it like that—just when I've figured I might gather the courage to put myself out there if only Edward wanted more—that's discouraging.

It's not like we'd jump each other if he hadn't said that or if the door were closed all the time, but uh, I don't know.

"No problem," I reply, offering a smile. An assuring one, I hope.

"Good." He gets up to leave, and so does Edward, but I ask Edward's dad to stay for a moment and assure Edward I'll be right downstairs. He's puzzled.

I wait until he leaves.

"Sir?"

"Please call me by my name. I feel so old being called sir."

"I would but I forget your name all the time."

He chuckles. "It's Carlisle. So how can I help you?"

"Alright, Carlisle, I just wanted to ask about that psychologist you suggested I should see. I—I think I want to see one, but I don't really know anyone."

"Of course. Do you want a phone number?"

"I'd really appreciate it. I know they're expensive, too, so I don't think I have the money for a world-class psychologist. Just someone who's willing to go at my own pace."

"Of course, Bella. If money is an issue, we'll help you out."

"Oh, no. I wasn't implying anything, I just mean—I want someone trustworthy."

"I didn't think you were, Bella," he says. "Wait right here, I'll get his number and you can call him today." He gets the psychologist's number, I install it into my phone and call right away. I talk to his assistant (no times available for another month), but when I mention Dr. Cullen suggested him (which Edward's dad told me to do), I get Dr. James T. Hunter on the phone, and a time for next week.

I guess nepotism really does work.

Edward is sitting on his bed with a laptop in his lap, but he closes it immediately after my knock. I enter and sit cross-legged next to him.

"So do you have like a secret club of joggers with Emmett?"

I laugh. "Yes, Edward. Yes."

"What do you have to do to be included in the club?"

"Become Emmett."

"So whenever you're angry at each other, you go for a jog."

"No, whenever he's upset by anything, not just me, we go for a jog," I correct. "I have this theory about people. I think everyone has a different coping mechanism, and since that is his, I want to help him."

"What's mine?"

"Proximity."

He averts his eyes from mine, clearly in thought.

"Isn't it?"

"I've never thought about it like that."

"I didn't mean to assume, Edward. I just figured… if I had to guess, that would be my answer."

"No, I think you're right," he answers, looking back at me. "So what's yours?"

"Denial."

"That's not a coping mechanism, that's a non-coping mechanism."

"It's the perfect coping mechanism until you _realize_ you're in denial. That's when the mechanism stops working."

"Interesting," he replies, still in thought. "So there are things you only share with your brother, and now you have secrets with my dad, too."

"Hardly," I sort of snort-huff, and it's _very_ lady-like. "I just wanted advice about health or whatever."

"Are you alright?" he asks, all frowning and concerned and adorable as hell.

Nah, just kidding. I don't think hell is adorable at all. But Edward is.

Edward puts his laptop on the bedside table and stretches out next to me. He rests his head on his hand, and it's so odd seeing him like this; casually doing nothing but talking to me. I wish I could just cuddle up next to him.

"No, Edward. I just discovered I have an autoimmune disease and a month left to live."

His face pales.

"Seriously." I laugh. "You should be used to my deadpan by now."

"Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack."

"Edward, if I had only a month left to live, I'd be trying to convince you to take my virginity so I wouldn't die oblivious to what sex is all about."

"You're right. That wouldn't do at all."

"And you're saying that from experience?"

He doesn't even blink. "Yes."

"Ah, so you were an early bloomer."

He snorts a laugh, raising his eyebrow. "You can say that again."

I'm surprised by how easy it is to discuss this with Edward, but he doesn't seem uncomfortable at all, and I'm curious.

"How early is early?"

"Very," he replies. "Too early. You don't want to know, trust me."

"What if I do? I'm intrigued."

"You'll be shocked."

"Alright, shock me. No wait, let me guess," I say. "Nine?"

"No. Not that early."

"Thirteen?"

"Take it down a notch."

"Twelve?"

"Almost."

"Eleven, Edward? No way."

He isn't proud. He seems to be contemplating as he scratches his chin and nods. "A week from my eleventh birthday."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"But that's—Jesus. You were only a kid. Please tell me the girl was older than you. Please."

"Oh, yes. She was sixteen. Five years older."

"How does that even happen?"

"I was very, _very_ curious about my sexuality," he replies, and the ease of the conversation continues to amaze me. It's surprisingly easy to discuss such things with Edward. "I was also a giant in my class, always the tallest. We were in summer camp. I don't think she knew how young I was."

"I'm traumatized for you, Edward."

"No reason to be. It happened. I think dad had a heart attack when he found out."

"Holy fuck, did you tell him?"

"No. But the girl thought she was pregnant."

"No way. No… just no."

Edward's smile is sad. "Yes."

"Didn't you use protection?"

"I did. I might've had gaps in my decision-making, but dad at least kept me well-educated about those things."

"Is it even possible—I mean, physically—to get a girl pregnant when you're that young?"

"I, uh," he clears his throat. "Developed _very_ early."

"And the condom broke? Holy fuck."

"Ah, no," he replies, chuckling. "It was a false alarm."

I let out a breath. "Jesus Christ, no wonder you're mature for your age. I cannot even imagine what you must've been through."

"It was a real wake-up call for me. And dad."

"And your mom?"

"Dad didn't tell her. I hope she never finds out."

We just look at each other, and it's not uncomfortable at all. I raise my hand to tickle the stubble on his cheek, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

"You're right. I'm pretty shocked."

He offers me a sad smile.

"So you've been sexually active for six years now? Jesus."

"Ah, no. Dad didn't tell me not to, he just told me if I'm not ready to talk about sex with the girl then I shouldn't be having it. So I waited a couple of years."

"Thirteen is still very young."

"I know. But it's better than eleven."

"So was it how you imagined?"

"I don't think any girl wants to hear this answer, but it's always good for guys."

"Even the first time?"

The tips of his ears redden. "Yes. Though that one was quite short."

I laugh.

"I've heard that can happen, yeah," I answer. We look at each other for a while. "So I don't know if I'm stepping any boundaries here, but how many girls have you been with?"

"Four."

"No kidding?"

"No."

"I thought you said you weren't a womanizer."

"I'm not." Edward sits up. "I'm not, Bella. I swear. I was in a relationship with two of them. The first one was, yeah, clearly a mistake."

I really like the fact that he's not boasting about any of this.

"Does it bother you?"

The look he gives me is quite vulnerable.

"What?"

"That I've been with four girls."

"Of course not. It's none of my business."

"Does stuff like this bother girls?"

"I don't know about other girls. I have few very close female friends, and I've never talked about this even with Angela. So I'm not really a fountain of knowledge. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replies. "But would it bother you if we were involved?"

"I really doubt it. I mean, everyone's got a history. Even lack of history is history. It's not really something you can change." I look down, shrug and somewhat change the subject. "So you've been in love two times?"

"Uh, no. I don't think I really loved them. Cared for them, yes. In love? No."

"But how do you know? How does anyone know? I'm so confused."

"I didn't before. But now…" He ruffles my hair and smiles. "I just know."

He's so tender I'm finding it really, really hard not to look into it.

"So now that we're done dissecting the mistakes that I've made, are we going to dissect your love life now?"

"You mean the absolute lack of it? Sure."

"What about that guy you like?"

I flush. I can't help it. "Ah, no, Edward. That's a no–go zone."

"A–ha! So there really is someone?"

"No–go zone, Edward."

"How's that fair? We just discussed the most embarrassing mistakes I've made."

"But the difference is that you're not _embarrassed_ by them. You own up to everything. I'm much more prone to embarrassment. You—you're immune."

He smiles. "So I'm not allowed to discuss the object of your affection?"

We just did, Edward, and it was a thorough discussion.

"You can ask about anything else that is embarrassing."

"Okay. Is it my turn to ask who you've dated?"

"Not applicable."

"Really?"

"Oh, please, Edward. Look at me. You don't have to feign surprise."

"Bella…"

"Sorry, old habits die hard," I apologize. "I'm too used to that approach. I'm sorry. Either way, my complete lack of experience with men makes this a much more pitiful and boring discussion."

"What about the first guy who kissed you? Am I allowed to know who that was?"

The moment I feel my blush, I cover my face with my hands. "Still not applicable."

Edward sits up straighter and gently takes my hands away from my face. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"But it _is_, Edward. I'm seventeen. If there were a ladder with ten steps, each of them describing how experienced you are for your age, I'd be underground."

He lets out a laugh, but sobers soon. "Bella, you have no idea how much I wish I'd made the decision to wait. It's not like there's the perfect age to start with all of it. It's a different age for everyone."

"What a pair we make."

"What?"

"You're, like, the earliest sexually active person that I know, and I'm such a late developer I probably won't find a guy to have sex with me when I'm fifty."

He laughs. "You're not a late developer, you've just waited. Nothing wrong with that."

I raise my eyebrows. "See, that's where you're wrong. If there's a medical term for a late bloomer, it's in my medical record."

"That's nonsense."

"Are you trying to make me reveal embarrassing things about myself? Because it's working."

"So what if you're a late bloomer? That's what I'm trying to tell you. It doesn't matter."

"Jesus, where did you _come_ from, Edward?"

"What?"

"You're just so kind and intelligent and you've got such a sensible world view. How are you so mature for your age? I feel like I've hit the jackpot when you decided to become my best friend."

His expression is indecipherable, but he gives me this secret smile. "Do you really want to know the answer to that?"

"How you're so mature? Ah, right, I forgot."

"Bella—you don't even know what you unraveled when you convinced Rosalie to meet me." He takes a breath. "So the reason why I don't act or look like a seventeen year old? Because I'm probably not."

"I—I don't understand."

He shakes his head, and there's a distant look in his face. "Rosalie's birthday is listed as being on same year as mine, even though hers is in the middle of December and mine is in June. It makes no sense. She literally gave me my birth-certificate that claims I'm born three years earlier than what we've always thought."

"Holy shit."

"So when I'm going to be eighteen this year, really… I'll be twenty one."

"Holy shit."

"Neither my dad nor mom showed any signs of unease or recognition when I introduced them to Rosalie. I don't think they know she exists at all. Because my sister has been in and out of families, she's always known. She's searched the answers for years. She has _incredible_ connections, like, she's spoken to… uh, anyway, she gave me this.

He hands me a piece of paper.

It's dark blue. It's a little rugged, with a British Columbia stamp in the middle, and I hope I've memorized all this information correctly, because it looks something like this:

CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH

CANADA  
BRITISH COLUMBIA

Name: Edward Junior Masen  
Date of Birth: 25. March, 1992  
Place of Birth: North Vancouver  
Date of Registration: 7. April, 1992  
Name of Father:  
Birthplace of Father:  
Maiden Name of Mother: Elizabeth Jeanne Thompson

There's a signature by the Director of Vital Statistics underneath.

"Holy shit. Is this real?"

"Until anyone can prove otherwise."

"How did she _get_ it?"

"She wouldn't tell me."

"Holy shit. You're not even a United States citizen."

"Maybe my father is American. I don't know."

I give him back his Birth Certificate, but I'm completely stunned. "But three years, Edward—that's a long time. How could they have made that mistake? I mean, if they got you when you were three, they couldn't have mistaken you for a newborn."

"Rosalie says she has reason to believe I was seven years old and malnourished and even though I was—in all probability—tall, maybe I didn't respond or talk much. I don't know."

"Holy shit," I repeat, sitting closer to Edward. "Don't you want to speak to your dad and Esme?"

"It's too soon."

"How are you coping with all of this?"

He shrugs. "One day at a time."

I tickle his stubble with my fingertips. "So that's why you have that five o'clock shadow going on when most guys in our class barely ever have to shave."

Edward snickers and shakes his head. "You have no idea, Bella. If all of this is true, and I'm actually three years older than I've thought, I wasn't eleven when I became sexually active. I was fourteen."

"Thank God, Edward. You scared me with all that talk about being eleven years old when it happened. I know, fourteen isn't too old, either, but _eleven_…" I shudder. "Seriously, that's _way_ too young."

"Tell me about it."

We sit right next to each other, Edward is now leaning against the wall and I'm facing him, cross-legged, touching the rough complexion of his face with my fingertips. He's closed his eyes, and I observe his face. I'm overwhelmed by what he's learned about himself, and I have so many questions, but I think we've had enough excitement to last until the end of the year. Which is in a few weeks.

"Bella?" Edward asks without opening his eyes.

"Yes?"

"If I decide to tell my parents," he says, running circles along the back of my hand. "Will you be there with me?"

"If you want me there."

"I do."

"Then I will."

: :

Just this morning, I find myself standing in front of a mirror. I'm stark naked. I just stand and observe. Esme has a scale on the second floor, and I use it. The good news is, I've gained two pounds per week. I'm 110 pounds now. It doesn't come easy, gaining weight. I eat often, I eat properly, I eat a lot and I eat healthy, but I still feel like one hour of extra exercising would just wipe away all my hard work. Mr. Black told me it's usually not wise to gain more than two pounds per week, but since "I'm still developing" (so much pain and hope in one sentence, huh?) it shouldn't scare me if I gain a little more than that (per week) within the first month. Basically, he told me not to freak out by anything.

I know that gaining fifteen pounds per week would not only be unrealistic, it's also unhealthy. But still, I was hoping with all my devouring, I'd see more than two pounds. At least I haven't hit a plateau.

Lauren told me I have it all backwards and the rest of the world is trying to slim down while I'm desperate to gain weight. She's right. Every girl who knows about my attempts to gain weight—not that there's many since I don't announce it to everyone, but I don't lie when anyone asks, either—has told me they _envy_ me. I've tried to reason with them, but unlike me, they do seem to think that if they were only slimmer, a certain weight, they'll be happier and smarter and prettier and the world would suddenly be perfect.

That's such bullshit.

I do not think I'll be perfect when I hit a certain weight. Let's be realistic. That's not going to happen. And I refuse to make weight the center of my universe. I don't want that. If I hit a point where all I think about is how much I weigh and how to achieve that, I will immediately take Edward's dad up on his offer and find a psychologist for that, too. I've decided to take it easy and weigh myself once a week on Tuesdays.

So far, so good.

So I stand there, in front of the mirror, just like I did a month ago, and I look at myself. I look at myself critically and amiably and I try to think nice thoughts about myself. I'm still tall. I'm still lanky. But I'm starting to see the faint lines of muscles. They aren't obvious, but they're there. And either my eyes are deceiving me or my hips have finally decided that they belong to woman, they seem a little wider. I don't know. Maybe what Mr. Black mentioned about me "still developing" is true. Is it? I am, after all, a late developer. Does that mean there's still hope for me? Do I have hope to find my curves?

Oh, well. Only time will tell.

My nose still looks like Jennifer Grey's before rhinoplasty. It's a hawk nose. (Hey, John Lennon supposedly had a hawk nose, so there's hope for me, and besides, mine looks more like Stephen Fry's, just not as crooked.) My eyes, while not too small, are still under two somewhat undefined eyebrows that are close to my eyes. What really surprises me is that my gigantic forehead no longer bothers me. My haircut hides it.

You know what? Yesterday, Esme complimented me on the shape of my skull.

The _shape_ of my _skull_.

Ugliness, level 5831: Getting compliments about the _shape_ of your _skull_.

Sorry, couldn't resist. But the thing is, she really meant it, she said I'm lucky because my haircut really compliments the _shape_ of my _skull_. She's so lovely.

I'm adding the shape of my skull to the list of my positive traits. Jesus, I can't even write about it without giggling. I don't want to wake Edward.

Anyway, as I stand there, I smile at my reflection, and I decide my smile is wide and toothy and quite lovely. It's the one thing about me that I've never felt self-conscious about. There's a dimple on my right cheek when I do smile, and even when it's not as prominent as Emmett's adorableness (he has two very prominent dimples), it's still there. I always thought it made my face asymmetrical—and thus, unattractive—but hey, it's a part of my smile, and even a smile with no teeth is lovely.

Okay, so the good thing is that I've gained four pounds. The bad thing is that, well, I've also grown an inch.

An _inch_.

I'm not sure if it's necessarily a bad thing, I just—I didn't know. I mean, I can't think of a girl at school who'd be taller than me, but I always thought I was five foot nine. I'm five foot ten.

But Edward is still way taller than me.

He towers over all the guys, I tower over all the girls and some of the guys. What a pair we make.

But you know what? Tilda Swinton, that gorgeous actress with Edward's eyes (haha), she's over five foot ten. I'll survive.

Maybe it's time to embrace the fact that I'm unlike anyone else I know and that's not necessarily a bad thing. And there's nothing wrong with me. I look like a normal teenager, maybe a little late in development, but still a normal teenager.

: :

On the 25th of December, at around seven AM in the morning, I'm sneaking upstairs with a roll of wrapping paper and silver duct tape. I find Esme humming a Christmas song in the kitchen. There are candles on the table and Christmas lights everywhere.

I must be the silliest creature on Earth because of what I'm about to do, but I don't care.

"Good morning," I offer, smiling. "Can I help?"

"Thanks for the offer, honey," she replies. "Not at the moment. Go and enjoy freedom."

She glances at the duct tape in my hand and wrapping paper in the other. I raise them. "I was actually wondering if you could help."

She wipes her hands and turns to me. "I'm a little busy at the moment, could this wait? Or could you turn to Carlisle? He's much better at handicraft, anyway," she replies.

"Is he in the living room?"

"Yes."

I go to the living room, and even though Carlisle is hidden under stacks and stacks of paper, he looks up as I enter.

"Good morning, Bella," he says, smiling. "You seem happy."

"I am," I answer. "Sir, I was wondering if you could help me out a little."

"Carlisle."

"Yes, that's what I meant."

He chuckles. "Sure thing, what do you need?"

"I'd like you to wrap me into this paper," I raise it, "and then cover it with this," I raise the duct tape.

He stares at me for a second before snickering. "I'm not sure about the purpose it'll serve, but alright." And so, I hold my hands close to my body as Edward's dad wraps me into this bright red wrapping paper covered with smiling Santas, and I twirl as he adds the duct tape. In the end, I'm like a giant glowworm. I can't move my arms, I can barely move my legs, and I've never felt so silly in my life.

I love it.

"So." Edward's dad puts away the duct tape and observes his handiwork. "Am I allowed to ask what this is for?"

"Edward told me all he wanted for Christmas was snow, and for his friends to be happy. I made a snowball, and I'm happy, so I decided if material goods aren't enough for guys like your son, this will have to do."

Edward's dad throws back his head, laughs and sits back down. "How are you even going to go downstairs? Should I carry you?"

"I figured I'd just—" I hop, turning. "Hop."

Carlisle bursts out laughing as I hop in their corridor, half a foot at a time, and when I pass the kitchen and Esme's gobsmacked expression, I burst into laughter myself.

I carefully hop downstairs, snickering like a crazy person even though I try to stifle it not to wake Edward up before it's time. By the time I've made it to the parlor, I'm nearly dying of laughter. I take several breaths to force myself to calm down before I grip that little pink bucket (with my little snowball inside) with my teeth. I hop closer to his door and stop in front of it.

This is the difficult part.

I try pressing my nose onto the doorknob, and when it doesn't work, I burst into fits of giggles. I'm stuck in red wrapping paper, there's duct tape all around me, I feel like the immovable incredible hulk—except I'm a glowworm—I'm gripping a pink bucket with my teeth and attempting to open the door with my nose. I hope I don't die of laughter before making it to Edward.

Just when I turn my head, Esme takes a picture of me. She's laughing, too, and asks me if I need help with the door. I do. She opens it and leaves with bursts of giggles.

I'm praying that Edward is not masturbating. Would that be embarrassing or what.

I pause, just to make sure he's still sleeping. He is, so I hop in. My jaw is killing me, and I quietly place the tiny bucket on the blanket and make sure Edward hasn't woken up yet. He's without a shirt, lying on his stomach, gripping a pillow (why does this not surprise me?), and his chest is rising and falling rhythmically. His back and shoulders are more defined by muscles than I expected. It's sexy. His mouth is slightly open and he's drooling on the pillow.

Still not losing points from the sexiness. Damn.

I giggle quietly and turn over the bucket with my nose. It creates a wet blob on the blanket, but I ignore it and push the snowball toward Edward with my nose. I decide I have to bite into it for full effect (hey, it's just water), so I do, and when I let go, it lands on Edward's bicep.

Snow splashes all over his face, and in a nanosecond, Edward is sitting in the middle of the bed.

"What the—"

His eyes land on me, first squinting, focusing, and then widening as he watches me suppress giggles. But no, my giggles win, and soon I'm gasping for breath as I watch him stifle his own laughter.

"Bella! Why are you—you look like a turtle!"

"Turtles have legs, Edward," I reply, laughing. "I'm incapacitated. I'm a glowworm."

"But… why?"

I take a breath to be able to reply properly. "You said you wanted snow, and I gave you a snowball. Then you wanted your friends to be happy this Christmas. I am happy."

"So…" he laughs. "You're like my gift for Christmas?"

"Yes."

"Bella…" he says with so much tenderness and strength and every emotion in between. "This is the reason we're best friends. You're so fucking awesome."

"Really?"

"Come here," he says, and I hop next to him. He laughs. I'm glad he at least has a pair of boxers on (if he slept in the nude, this wake-up call would've been much more embarrassing). He opens his arms for me, but his expression tells me he's up to something, so I'm very careful. When I'm within his arms reach, he wraps both of his arms around me and lifts me to the center of his bed. I squeal.

"What're you doing?"

"You are going to sleep here now. It is way too early to get up. And you said you're my gift."

"I am but—"

"Shush."

He's beaming as he wraps both of his arms and a leg around me, just for the mock effect, probably. He makes me rest my head on his bicep, pulls up the cover (halfway) and… just grins at me. I try to look annoyed, but I fail completely, because I'm just grinning back at him. I can't move, but I trust Edward.

"You know, that's the most romantic gift I've ever received," he says.

"I didn't mean for it to be."

"Do I get to keep you for forever?"

"Er, maybe just for today."

"What kind of a gift is that?"

"A practical one. People grow tired of their gifts too soon anyway."

"So can I do whatever I want with you today?"

"Consensual things, yes."

He hums, and closes his eyes, but he's still grinning. I love it that I put it there. After a while, though, I get a nose itch, and I start to rub my nose against his shoulder blade and neck.

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Scratching my nose."

"Can you, uh, not do it?"

"Why?"

"It's turning me on and I don't want to assault you when you sleep," he says, and he looks sheepish. I burst out laughing.

"If I could, I would give you a high five right now for using deadpan so well. I take the credit for teaching you, of course."

He looks sort of, I don't know, conflicted, but then the smile covers his face again when I stop. My nose still itches though.

"Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you scratch my nose? Left side."

He does, and he's laughing silently when he stops.

"All better?"

"All better."

He sighs, closes his eyes and pulls me closer to him again.

"Can I just keep you for myself?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."


	14. Sticks and Stones My Ass

"According to an opinion poll, 13 per cent of women in the United States cannot say whether they wear their tights under their knickers or over them. That's something like 12 million women walking around in a state of chronic foundation garment uncertainty. Perhaps because I so seldom wear ladies' clothing I don't fully appreciate the challenge involved, but I am almost certain that if I did wear tights with knickers I would know which was on top. More to the point, if a stranger with a clipboard came up to me in the street and asked me how my underwear was configured, I don't believe I would tell him that I didn't know." — Bill Bryson, _I'm a Stranger Here Myself_

: :

When I was five, I think, my kindergarten teacher asked us to draw the person we wanted to become when we grew up. With painful diligence, I drew two lines on the picture. Nothing else. My desk-mate at the time, Jennifer, asked me to explain my picture, so I patiently told her the person I wanted to become was so tall he'd never fit on such a teeny-tiny paper. So I only drew his neck.

My teacher told me I'd misunderstood and I could draw another picture if I wanted. I was so hurt I didn't. I listened to my friends say how they wanted to be firemen and hairdressers and doctors and models. When it was my turn, I stood up and announced I was going to become Ryan Stiles.

Jennifer giggled and announced girls couldn't become boys when they grew up. She completely missed my point. My teacher, good-natured woman that she was, asked if I meant I wanted to be _like_ Ryan Stiles. Did I mean I wanted to become an actress?

I sat back down, stunned. Nobody understood. I didn't want to be _like_ Ryan Stiles, I wanted to _be_ Ryan Stiles. She said so herself—she wanted us to draw who we wanted to _become_, not who we wanted to be _like_ when we grew up.

Really, she should've been more specific.

And I wondered if Ryan Stiles was an actor at all. Was he? He never pretended to be someone else on ABC's _Whose Line is it Anyway_? The show where points don't matter. We always watched it together. It made my parents laugh and they cuddled up beside each other while watching it. It was one of the only times they acted like my friends' parents who kissed in front of others and stuff. I had no idea what my parents found funny, but I laughed along and pretended to understand. Mom and dad often argued who they preferred, Colin or Ryan. I frequently observed them when they watched the show and decided that if Ryan Stiles made them happy, if he made them all cuddly and affectionate, I would become him.

If I became Ryan, my parents would always be happy.

It was the perfect plan.

: :

My neck is stiff. It is not so much the occasional push and tickle that awakens me, it's Edward's attempt to stifle his laughter. By the time I've fully began to comprehend that yes, indeed, I fell asleep in Edward's arms in his bed, he's already cut open half of the wrapping paper around me. But I have yet to be able to move my hands—or any other part of my body, for that matter—so I simply stay silent and watch Edward as he kneels next to me, clad in boxer briefs or whatnot. He's pale. His chest is reasonably toned, no six-pack or anything, he's just muscled enough to make you feel all safe and protected. And, he's got really broad shoulders, so if he wanted to, he could bulk up and make women faint at the mere sight of him.

Not that I doubt any of that happening regardless of his muscularity.

He's clearly having fun right now as he grins to himself, letting out the occasional laugh. It's like watching a bipolar disorder. He switches from being all childish and having cute disregard for any consequence to being all serious and pensive as he works with the scissors. He gets closer to my upper body, and I close my eyes because I feel bad for having ogled at him when he's unaware. Soon, his scissors get stuck to my T-shirt. He curses and halts to a stop, probably making sure that I didn't wake up. I don't move. He continues until I feel the wrapping paper loosen around me.

Dear God, how long were we asleep? I don't even have to have paper wrapped around me. I feel about as flexible as an icicle.

"Bella?"

I have the sudden urge to pop my eyes open and laugh myself silly, but I don't. I just want to see—er, hear—what he's up to. He straddles my legs and wraps his arms around me, and I'm kind of baffled and curious with my heart in my throat, but then he simply lifts me a little to get the wrapping paper out from underneath me. I hear it fall to the ground.

Shortly thereafter, he leaves a kiss on my cheek, and he lingers, and I'm just a puddle of goo from feeling his breath on my face. I wonder what I would see if I were to just pop my eyes open and scare him half to death. He should really consider being less touchy-feely because I'm starting to struggle (not) looking into it.

Then again, he's teaching me how to be more comfortable with stuff like this and he doesn't even know it.

In a flash, he's gone, and when he returns (he put some clothes on), I'm silently watching him. Not even pretending to sleep. He's surprised to see me awake when he lies down in front of me, but only smiles and rests his head on his palm.

I stretch—dear God, are my muscles stiff or what (totally worth it, though)—and smile. "Good morning."

"There's this girl who gave _herself_ for me for Christmas," he replies with a wicked smile. "I would say it is a good morning, indeed."

"Stop making fun of me, Edward, or I'll never give you anything for Christmas. Ever again."

He just grins. "Except for yourself, huh?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He purses his lips in a line, but only for a second before he lights up again. "I still have you for today, you know."

"No. I totally wasn't here this morning."

"Sleeping with me is an out of body experience? Why Bella…"

I laugh. "Jesus, are all guys like that? Any random comment will be turned into a joke about a man's sexual prowess. I could mention two entirely unrelated words, like a chair and multivitamins, and you'd be popping sexual innuendo all over the place."

"Why? Are you doubting my 'sexual prowess'?"

"Because you totally seem like a guy who couldn't take care of a girl," I reply. "No. I'm sure having sex with you _would_ be an out of body experience. Did that stroke your ego enough?"

The _tips_ of his ears _redden_. He's embarrassed! Why do I not have a camera? I'll cherish this moment for an eternity.

"But we'll never know, and we should change the subject before I start imagining scary penises and run for my life."

The scary part is, I don't think I'm joking. I look at him—he's silent—and I see an opening, the perfect opportunity for me to just… tell him. Like with Emmett. Only it's Edward. Just open your mouth, and tell him. He's your best friend. He clearly cares a great deal about you.

But when I do, I freeze up, and close my mouth before any sound can get out. I'm fairly certain Emmett is right—Edward wouldn't judge or make me feel bad about myself, but I think inside my epiphany-covered naïve body, somewhere fragile, there's a Zero Point Unlikely percent that is scared shitless of Edward, this really kind friend that I have, being appalled by how weak I've been and then he'll finally open his eyes and see I'm not the girl he thinks I am, that I've been a social outcast for years, and he'll walk away.

I know it wouldn't happen. I know that. But my self-esteem has been at the bottom of a hole for years, and even though mine is just as affected by the way I look as it is by what has happened to me, I can't just shake it off and build a wall to protect me from my less than stellar view of myself. Because the thing is, I don't want that wall there. I'm not building it. I want to be able to look in the mirror and like what I see. I don't want my actions and my self-esteem to be two separate identities always struggling to get along. They need to get along.

I don't know where Emmett got the wisdom to convince me to see a psychologist, but damn, it seems I am in serious need of talking to one.

"Bella?" Edward says, and he's suddenly so close he can ruffle my hair with ease. His voice is tender. "Are you alright?"

"Would you mind telling me about your sister?"

"Now?"

"No, a year from now. I'm just curious. I haven't actually met her—nor do I know anything about her… so, what's she like?"

"She said you've got the persistence of a mule."

"The persistence of a mule?" I let out a snort-like laugh. "I love her already. You should introduce us."

"I will. When I first met her, it struck me that she's about as different from you as a person could be, but then we talked, and really, I think you'd get along brilliantly. There are some things that she believes that are just so _you_…"

"Like what?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Did her brain filter get swallowed by a donkey, too?"

He chuckles. "No. And I don't believe yours had that fate, either. Half of the time I'm trying to figure out if you really mean what you say or if you're only bullshitting."

"Oh, that one's a piece of cake. Half of the time I mean it, and the other half I'm bullshitting."

"Which half, though?"

"The yellower half."

"I like it how a conversation with you always makes sense."

"Half of the time."

He laughs.

"So when do I get to properly meet her?"

"I'm meeting her on New Year's Day. Maybe sooner, though, I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know."

"So I get to tag along? Brilliant."

"If you want to. I'd like it if you could meet her. But you should know she seems kind of a difficult person to get to know. She's pretty shy."

"That's okay. I've been shy once." I turn and reach for the box I'd hoped he wouldn't see during the night, and fall off the bed in my attempt. I burst into laughter, and as soon as Edward sees I'm perfectly intact, he joins in. I take the blue box (it's pressed against the headboard underneath the bed), I give it to Edward and sit back down.

"Here—it's for you."

"Bella…"

"I already made you two gifts, yada-yada, you don't care for material goods, blah-blah-blah. Just remember, neither of my gifts so far has been an actual, tangible gift."

He pokes me.

"Hey! What was that for?"

Again, he pokes me. "You seem pretty tangible to me."

I snort a laugh, and at a moment's notice, he's pinned me against the bed, his stomach against mine as we form an X with our bodies, only he curls one of his legs inside mine and makes it impossible for me to move anything other than my left leg. He holds me in place, reaches for the gift and gives me a wicked smile. My stomach is practicing somersaults.

He's beaming, but pretends to be annoyed. "Don't mind me. I'm just making sure you're tangible."

I snort. Still semi-hugging me in a horizontal position, he unwraps the book I gave him (yeah, my gift-giving isn't the most creative) and looks down at me.

"Ogden Nash?"

"Do you already have him?"

"The Strange Case of the Blackmailing Dove?"

"No idea what you just said. Yes? I know he's more on the light-hearted end of poets, nothing like Robert Frost or E. E. Cummings, but I figured… a bit humor in our lives wouldn't hurt. If you already have him, though, I can just keep the book for myself. I don't mind."

"I don't have—hey, you wrote a dedication!" he says. "Dear Edward, even as I've never—"

"Please don't." I feel myself flush, but Edward just grins that wicked smile of his and presses more firmly against me. I can feel his heartbeat. He then pretends I don't exist (except for the fact that he makes it impossible for me to leave.)

"—even as I've never wriffen—"

"That's a t, Edward!"

"—poefry, I jusf know mine would suck. So you're nof geffing any. If I could, however, I would wrife abouf —"

"Stop insulting my handwriting! That is clearly a t."

He snickers. "It's an f, Bella."

"Will you pretend to understand my handwriting for my ego's sake? Or stop reading it. Ofherwise I'll jusf fake if back."

"Alrighf." He laughs. "If I could, however, I would write about our eternal escapades of silliness ('cause as long as I'm here, you're outta luck—you just can't avoid it) and how much you mean to me. — _Less violence, Bella! I'm trying to read here. — _But you're not getting any poetry, okay? Though I expect a love poem dedicated to duct tape because tomorrow morning is going to be embarrassing. Either way, you're pretty awesome. Oh, and merry Christmas, too. Yours, Bella."

Edward puts down the book. The intense look in his eyes scares and thrills me, and I don't know how to react.

I purse my lips in a smile. "I just mean—you're important. I'm not—I'm not hitting on you or anything."

"Why not?"

"Hey, don't make fun of me. You know I didn't mean it like that."

He averts his eyes, and I swear, his face sort of, I don't know, twists, and I feel bad. I've done something wrong, because for a single moment, he appears to be upset by what I've just told him. But when he looks back at me, it's like the moment never existed at all, and he's smiling again.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to upset you or anything."

"It's fine," he replies.

I'm so annoyed with myself.

I mean, I'm used to not being seen that way, so I always assure him that's not what I mean. No guy (well, until Laurent) has ever shown interest in me, and I've never felt like—or been—an attractive girl, so I always nip the thought in the bud. It's just such a ludicrous thought that someone would be interested in me. But really, do I just want to avoid getting hurt? If I don't let Edward see that I'd be (very much) interested in the possibility of us, then I won't get rejected. Because that's what he'd do. But would he, really? What if I stop making those comments and see if his lack of action concerning me is really just… him holding back? Because I make those comments more than I realize?

It's a ridiculous thought, and letting myself believe it even more so, but… I don't know. Either way, maybe I shouldn't reassure him every step of the way that I don't see him like that.

He looks at me, leaning on his elbow, and the twisted expression he previously had is gone. Before I know it, I'm enveloped into a tight, horizontal hug, and seriously, sex only involves less clothes. He's glued to me and I glue myself back to him. I'll make a personal perfume out of Edward's smell because even though it's not strong, it's freshly mowed grass and musk and campfire and yes, mint. It's perfect. I'm going to bottle it.

"Consider this my apology because I accidentally cut a hole in your T-shirt," he mumbles against my ear.

I snort a laugh. "Where?"

"Left side, right above your, uh," he says, and for the first time in ages, I see that awkward, stuttering boy I met a few months ago.

"Where?"

Half of his upper body is on top of me, so I take my hand away from him and slide it down my T-shirt. Edward lifts himself up to look at me, and the tips of his ears flush.

I look down and burst into laughter. Thank God I'm wearing a sports bra. (I don't necessarily have the need to wear a bra—A cup, remember?)

Yes, Edward, my boobs are not _there_ enough to call them anything but 'uh.'

"My left breast, Edward, really? If you wanted to charm my clothes off, you could've just written me a poem," I tell him. "Poof! Panties off."

His ears continue to redden, but he chuckles with me. "It's that easy?"

"It's poetry. If a guy wrote me poetry? Poof! Orgasm."

"I might reconsider not showing you what I've written then."

"You've written poetry for me?" I ask with my heart in my throat. "Me?"

Poof! Love.

He shrugs, but if the tips of his ears continue to redden, we might have to place ice-packs on it. "A few. I've written some for my mom, too. She's about the only person who's ever seen any of it."

Oh. Okay. Still cute, though. Show me a guy who isn't afraid to let you know how much he cares about his mom, and I'll show you my future husband. But if it's all PG-13 and doesn't concern love or taking my clothes off (haha, like Edward would ever write about something like that), it's safe for me to read it, right? Right.

"So, can I be the second? Can I see it?"

"No, still no. No way."

"But if it's all Bella my best friend yada-yada—no offence—I'd love to read it. I'm sure it's brilliant."

Edward's ears are aflame, but he shakes his head. "It's not really like… that."

Just when I start to get up from underneath him to look at him properly—keeping this posture must be killing his arms—there's a knock on the door, and Edward's dad steps in just in time to see Edward leap off of me. He's on the floor at the blink of an eye. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he looks guilty, but that can't be—his dad trusts him, right? But the faint scowl and serious expression convince me otherwise.

He keeps his eyes on Edward, sort of like giving him a silent message, and he doesn't look the least bit pleased. But that doesn't make any sense. We weren't doing anything. If I got Edward in trouble, I need to get in trouble, too. I caused this situation. Not that any of what we were doing was untrustworthy.

"Bella, you left your phone upstairs. There's a man named Phil Dwyer calling you," he says, holding out my ringing phone for me while still not taking his eyes off Edward.

"Sir, is Edward in trouble? We weren't—"

"Phone, Bella."

I take it.

"Edward?" he continues as I gape at his stern insistence. "Let's have a talk."

Edward offers me a look that questions and apologizes and tells me it's fine (yet he doesn't look the least bit convinced himself), and they're gone.

"Hello?"

"Bella?"

"Hi, Phil. How're you? Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine. Are you and your brother in Seattle?"

"Where else would we be? Dad's in Georgia, though."

"I know," he replies. "Listen, I don't have much time to explain right now, but I need to see you and your brother tonight. I know it's late notice, and it's Christmas. I'm sorry about interrupting yours. Do you think you could squeeze in a half an hour for me?"

"Sure. What does this concern? Are we in trouble?"

"Not at all, not at all," he replies absent-mindedly. "Listen, can you text me the address from where I can pick you up? You can just show me the way to Emmett's then."

"There's this—never mind. We'll both be at his place."

"Good, just text me the address, okay? I'll be there at around seven. Merry Christmas, Bella, see you."

I can barely respond to his Christmas wish before he's already disconnected.

Huh. That explains that then. Not.

After his 'talk' with his father, there's something off about Edward in the morning. Or, no, maybe not really off, per se, just something distinctly different. He's not avoiding me or anything, but he does seem, I don't know, nonchalant somehow. I repeatedly ask him about it (trying to catch him off guard so he'd accidentally blurt out what the issue is) but he's quick. And it's not even that his physical self is different. He's exactly the same, unnecessarily touchy-feely, like he always is. His mind, though? Not here, that's for sure.

He's not rude or anything. Just… different. And I don't know how, but his parents are oblivious to it, so maybe I know him better than I previously thought to notice such a thing.

Sometimes, it's hard for me to grasp how little time Edward and I have actually known each other. Just over a month. Considering that, it's not surprising there are things about both of us that the other doesn't know, even if we're not purposefully keeping them from the other.

Okay, let me get to that.

At noon, Edward's parents and Edward and I go to church. I haven't gone to church since, well, that one time one and a half decades ago. My parents didn't particularly care and that's how I was raised. Polite oblivion. My dad isn't a passionate atheist, it's simply a topic that doesn't interest him much. I mean, he's at polite terms with Angela's dad, Pastor Webber, and despite his talent for expressing anger at the speed of light, I've never, not once, seen him show the slightest hint of distaste toward any religious person from any religion (provided they're not asshole-y with him). And maybe it's because he's passed his polite disinterest on to me, but that's exactly how I feel. This might sound horrible to anyone who feels passionate about the topic at hand, but I don't care much. I don't mind those who think there is higher power, I don't mind those who don't, I don't mind being the one who frankly doesn't care.

So, anyhow, Edward's parents are—seem to be—believers. In some form or another, they respect the thought of higher power, Esme seems to be quite active (already) in this new community the church provides, and Edward? He is, very clearly, in the habit of going to church. I don't think he goes every Sunday—at that point, I haven't asked—but he questions nothing about the experience while I have an overflowing barrelful of inquiries. I don't know where and when to stand. I don't know where and when to sit. I don't know when to sing.

I don't know anything.

And I feel like asking would be the most impolite thing I could do. I have no intention of telling Esme and Edward's dad that after having been baptized at the age of six months, I haven't stepped inside a church in… sixteen years, I guess. Not that I was able to _step_ into a church as a toddler. You know.

Eh, I don't know why I'm even talking about this. I wanted to talk about the evening at Jasper's.

So, anyway. There's a Christmas party in the evening, and the Cullens' entire family tree is there. I don't usually feel stage fright, but on the doorway, I literally back up into Edward's chest when I see the amount of relatives they have. Edward, fortunately, only chuckles and grasps my shoulders to steady me.

"You okay?"

See? He's still acting like he usually would (from how much I know him).

I step into the foyer (Jasper has a ginormous house) and watch children run and giggle and listen to an elderly lady talking animatedly to a boy my age and adults' laughter coming from the living room. More people arrive and greet everyone with the biggest smiles and scold their kinds and kiss each other's cheeks... it's quite something. The place is bursting with liveliness and joy. It's incredible. It's unlike any Christmas I've ever experienced.

It's also alarming.

What's more unsettling is that, suddenly, I feel this intense sense of alienation. Both Edward and his parents always nipped the thought in the bud—they'd shake their heads at my slightest mention of being a burden for them, but here, I fully began to grasp how I'm nothing but an intruder. It's not my family. They had no choice but to invite me, but at the end of the day, I don't… I just don't belong, you know?

I straighten my white dress (seriously, you thought I own more than one somewhat festive-looking dress? I feel for you, Emmett) and watch as a curly-haired boy, pre–K age, lights up at the sight of Edward and runs up to him to hug his leg. A shorter girl follows, jumping up and down, and begs for Edward to let her sit on his shoulders. Even though Esme kindly comes up to me to assure me I'm part of the family and I can—and should—make myself feel at home (and I thank her, because sometimes she's just… kindness personified), all I really do is observe Edward as he interacts with these kids. Apparently, he's _Uncle_ Edward, and he crouches to let the girl sit on his shoulders.

His face lights up when he interacts with them. I don't know why, but I'm intrigued. I've never been around guys who feel comfortable with kids. No, I don't mean that. I mean, I've never been around guys who _are_ _around_ kids. I've never seen Emmett with kids. I don't even know if he wanted any. Neither have I seen dad around kids. Like, little ones. Hell, _I_'ve never been around little kids much.

So, for some odd reason, I find something magical about Edward's at ease behavior and comfort around those kids. I shouldn't, really. It's normal for guys not to be standoffish with kids, right? But I haven't seen it. In movies? Sure. In my life? Not really. But it's enthralling. That's the word I want to use.

Anyway, since the girl is already on Edward's shoulders, the boy tugs at my pinky finger, looks up at me with his doe eyes and asks, "Are you Bella?" Which, really, sounds more like, "Awe you Bewwa?"

"I am."

"I'm Andrew." (Andwew!)

I grin and crouch next to him. "Very nice to meet you, Andrew."

He nods, clearly in a rush. "Will you let me sit on your shoulders?" ("Wiww you wet me sit on youw shouwdews?" It's adorable.)

Edward crouches next to us. "Hey, I'll take you later, okay? You're too heavy and Bella has a pretty dress on. You wouldn't want to make it dirty, now would you?"

He isn't even looking at me, he's talking to Andrew, and yet I feel butterflies in my stomach. Why yes, I am silly and twelve years old. Hey, not many people would use my name and 'pretty' in the same sentence, let me have my five seconds of delusion.

Little Andrew looks me up and down, assessing my dress and how small I am compared to Edward, and frowns. "I guess."

"No, I'll do it," I reply, and Andrew's face lights up like a Christmas tree. "I'll do it if you take your shoes off."

"Bella—you don't have to—"

Andrew has already thrown his little polished shoes against the wall (I place them neatly next to others because I don't want him to get in trouble for this). He climbs on my shoulders like I just offered him the world. I carefully stand, letting him wrap his little fists around my index fingers, and look at Edward. He's grinning at me, and the kids are already yelling for their parents to come and see where they are. We head into the living room, and sweet Jesus, it's packed with people. There couldn't be less than thirty people in this room alone.

Edward starts to introduce me to everyone (including Edward's granny Katherine, who is the most practical-looking no-nonsense granny I've ever seen), but turns out they already know my name and reason for being here, so after letting Andrew and Mackenzie down, we stand behind a couch. I observe the crowd while Edward leans on the wall, hands crossed. Esme is telling a small crowd the story of how I came to be the incredible glowworm (she just doesn't use that exact wording), she even shows them a picture of it on her camera, and after a long, mutual 'awww,' they all look at us.

Can I play opossum now? I want to.

A second later, my dear brother arrives, takes one look at the photo, widens his eyes to a comic extent and places a hand on his heart.

"My little sister is here!" he bellows. People laugh. He walks over to us, still holding a hand on his heart. "Aww, my two little lovebirds," he says, and I cannot control the flush on my face. Embarrassing. He makes a mushy, lovey-dovey looking face and grins so wide his dimples threaten to fall off.

"Emmett, are you drunk?"

He looks at both of us, back and forth, and delivers a stick, about four feet long, raising the end of it above our heads.

"Oh, look, guys!" he mock-gasps. "You're under a mistletoe!"

I look up, and indeed. If it were anyone else, I'd laugh my ass off (because this is my trick, I used to do it all the time with mom and dad when I was little).

But now? Like this? Forcing Edward to kiss me? I want him to _want_ to, damnit.

You are so dead, Emmett. So. Dead.

He simply grins at the both of us, seemingly oblivious, and as a few people see what's going on, we get occasional shouts and cheers to 'do it already.' I flush beetroot red, and the tips of Edward's ears redden. He's really uncomfortable, and I feel so bad by his unease I raise myself on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. He offers a smile and squeezes my hand as I put my heels down.

"Oh, come on! Your granny can kiss better than that."

Katherine, said teeny-tiny granny with snow white hair, hears his words as she's passing, lets out a 'hmph' sound, literally tugs at Emmett's sweater and takes advantage of his surprise, because he get a quick, sloppy kiss on the mouth.

_Priceless_.

I want to burst out laughing (much like Edward just did) but first, I wave Esme over, motioning at her camera. She snaps a quick picture of a now flushing Emmett and Edward's granny, who mumbles something about kids nowadays not knowing how to romance a woman.

Scandalous.

My grin is going to split my face, but Emmett recovers surprisingly fast, leaning on the wall as he raises the stick once again. "See how it's done? Come on now, your granny just proved she can do it better than that. I'm waiting."

The tips of Edward's ears are still red, but he glances around in the room (as do I, and not many people are watching us) before he steps right in front of me, runs his right hand through my hair, and lets it rest on the nape of my neck. His finger rubs the chain of my necklace and, as he leans down, I close my eyes and shiver. I can feel Edward's breath on my nose, and just the gentlest brush of his lips on mine makes my knees weak. The second time, he presses his lips more firmly against the side of mine, moves them ever so slightly, holds them all too briefly, and he's gone.

I am mush. If this is how I react to an innocent kiss from Edward, I might spontaneously combust if whatever it is that's between us ever went further than that.

I'm terrified to look at him, so instead, I raise my eyes to look at Emmett, and I swear, I've never seen him look so smug. I can barely acknowledge his shit-eating grin before I see the camera in his hands, and I just know he took a picture.

"Edward, did you know that Bella is totally in—"

"Emmett! Give me that!"

He backs up and holds the camera behind him.

"Shh, calm down, Bella, it's for your grandkids!"

"Emmett, you—"

He continues to retreat, grinning like a madman, before he turns around and breaks into a run. I go right after him. A whole swarm of kids is running right after us, laughing and yelling and thinking we're the most fun Christmas companions ever, so before we know it, Emmett and I are both sitting in the dark laundry room in the basement, not daring to breathe for fear that the kids will find us and force us to play all night. The entire situation is kind of funny, so we sit and hyperventilate for a while. I'm not even trying to get the camera from him anymore. Who knows, maybe when I'm a grey old spinster I'll have framed the photograph of my one and only kiss with my best friend (well… that he's aware of), even if he was forced into said kiss. It still curled my toes.

"Do you think they're gone?" Emmett asks. We listen intently. A few laughing kids pass the entry to the basement, but it gets quieter.

"I think so."

We both breathe a sigh of relief.

"What're you so scared of, Bella?"

"What?"

"What're you scared of?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why can't you just—I don't know, just let things happen with Edward? He seems like a decent guy."

"Emmett, you're delusional. And never, please, never corner him like that again, okay? Don't force him into stuff. He was so uncomfortable he almost went green."

"Oh, he was _uncomfortable_, alright."

I nudge him. "You're disgusting, and you're wrong."

"I'm right, and yes, men are disgusting. We're disgusting creatures."

"Edward isn't."

"Oh, trust me—he's just better at hiding it. Or maybe you're just bad at spotting it, you know, with your innocence and everything."

"Jesus, Emmett. Please tell me you didn't just find fault in my supposed naïveté."

"Okay, okay," he replies, pausing for a brief moment. "I think it was about time we found you a psychologist. You're kind of dumb."

"Hey!"

"No, I don't mean, like, book-dumb or life-dumb. Just kind of, you know, naïve dumb."

"Such compliments you give me, oh brother of mine."

"You know you love me."

"Unfortunately," I reply, getting up. "Hey—Phil Dwyer called, and he wants to meet us tonight at seven. I sent him the address."

He gets up as well. "He's in Seattle?"

"Apparently."

"What did he want?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"Is it anything bad?"

"He said it wasn't. I don't know. Maybe he found an extra pair of goose slippers for me and a free football scholarship for you."

Emmett chuckles. We join the others (they've just started to look for us because it's time to hand out gifts). I sit on the carpet next to Edward, and just observe the liveliness and joy of this giant family. I stretch out my legs, lean back against Edward's shoulder and glance at him. He throws a casual hand across my shoulders, kissing my forehead—and, note that he does all of this so absent-mindedly it's almost an unconscious move from his part.

"You okay?" he asks, his breath just tickling my temple.

I nod and hum. It's like nothing happened at all, and I love it and I hate it and I just don't know. Life was so much easier when I genuinely didn't care.

It's pretty much the perfect Christmas (or it would be if dad were here, and if mom were, you know, here too). Edward's dad has finally arrived back from the hospital, so now Edward's parents sit on the couch to give a small package to Edward, and when he opens it, a small, metal keychain lands in his palm. He looks up at his parents, and they're both smiling down at him. There's so much love in their eyes.

"You're kidding me."

"No." His father smiles.

"You didn't."

"We did."

"You—you got me a _car_."

"Yes."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"It's not a joke. It's yours."

He locks eyes with me, and when I first saw the Volvo keychain, I thought it was ridiculous, too, but now that we're looking at each other, I understand with perfect clarity—no, confused clarity—that he wasn't arguing because he couldn't believe it, or because it was so wonderful, or because it was every guy's dream. Oh, no. He's pissed off. I have never in my life seen Edward so quietly bottled with anger before. I do not know a single teenager who wouldn't be _elated_ to get a car for Christmas. But Edward? He's backwards, alright.

Not saying a word, Edward gets up, raises his hand and throws the keychain in a jug of juice. It lands with the perfect plump, sinks slower than you would ever expect from a metal keychain, and the entire room watches in stunned silence as it happens. Emmett gapes.

Edward's face twists, and he runs a hand through his hair. "Don't—don't pull shit like that on me. Please don't."

With concrete, determined steps, Edward leaves the room, and a moment later, the front door closes with a quiet click. Esme jumps as if it slammed.

And that is the precise moment I realize that really, I don't know Edward that well at all. I only know the tip of an iceberg.

Esme starts to get up to go after her son, but Edward's dad stops her. "Give him time."

So I stand up instead, and they say nothing as I silently walk to the foyer and put on my coat. I exit the house.

Edward is sitting on a bench on the lawn, holding his head in his hands in the dim light of the snow and Christmas lights. He doesn't raise his head as I approach.

"Dad, you can't expect me to buy me shit every time you think you've messed up, or buy me a car in exchange for my right to make choices about my future, just like you made me promise not to get involved—" He raises his eyes. "Oh."

I silently wipe off the snow from the seat next to him, and sit down. We both watch vapor coming from our mouths. I sink my mitten-clad hands further into my coat pockets, and we just sit and watch vapor. We do it for a while. I observe him, trying to see if he's annoyed by my presence, and when he doesn't seem to be, I slide closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. Because he needs that. For a second, a brief second, he stiffens, and I'm ready to be wrong and back off, but then he rests his back on the bench and wraps both of his arms around my shoulders. It's kind of sweet. (And totally freezing.)

"They always do that, you know? They buy me shit. They think they've messed up, they think they haven't spent enough time with me, they think I'm broody, they think I'm mad because we moved—they buy me shit. It's what they do. It's such a fucking joke, you know? How could they have given me the values and priorities they've given me, act like such douchebags about all of it, and still expect me to follow their words and not their actions?"

"They love you."

He voice softens. "I know that. But, Bella, imagine if you met a guy who—every single time he screwed up—bought you flowers. How would you feel about getting flowers?"

"I imagine I wouldn't like them very much."

"And what if you received flowers when he was not trying to apologize?"

"I'd be reminded of the times when he was. I'd see an ulterior motive, probably."

"That's exactly why I don't like getting shit from them," he replies. "But it's just—it's impossible to make them see that I don't want them to sit around trying to solve my problems. Aw, Edward, you've got a fuck-ton of problems? Let's buy you a fucking _car_. That'll make it _all_ better."

Emmett is right—I'm naïve, and not just about Edward, but because I so much want to see everyone's best, I fail to see issues. Or maybe I don't _want_ to see issues. I would've never thought Edward's parents did that, but I don't think it's only because I'm naïve, but because I've barely spent a few days with them. No family is perfect, and I shouldn't have thought that Edward's was an exception. Every family is dysfunctional in its own way.

But I still think they mean well.

I've also never heard Edward cuss so much. I mean, I curse all the time. Emmett? All the time. Dad? When he's angry. Edward? Very, very rarely.

"Have you told them you feel like this?"

"I've tried. It just won't get _through_ to them. They don't _listen_. It goes right where my attempts to have a conversation about independence go. Right through the window."

"What about it?"

"What?"

"What about your independence?"

"There is none. I mean, yeah, it's gotten better since you came around because you're just… you just charm their pants off, they think you're amazing, and they trust your dad, so that helps, but otherwise… why do you think I'm so involved with everything?"

Oh.

"What were you going to say earlier? They made you promise you wouldn't get involved with—what?"

"It's… uh. Nothing."

"Okay," I reply. "But if you—if you… you said you have problems and that they want to solve them for you," I say quietly. "You just… I'm here, you know? You can always talk to me."

"Obviously."

"Unless—unless I'm like an extra problem, in which case I'm really sorry. I don't, I didn't—"

"Jesus, Bella, no," Edward says. "It was just the time Rosalie's fate was so uncertain, that's when I really couldn't understand what I wanted and I just walked around all lost and stuff… so they figured I'm unhappy here and they should buy me a fucking car to make me happy again."

"Oh. You scared me." I take a breath. "Tell them all of it, the part about raising you with values and the part about your independence and them trying to throw money at your problems… just tell them all of it. They just want what's best for you. And they won't understand what that is unless you speak to them."

"They won't listen."

"Make them listen."

"How?"

"Show up in a bunny costume and sing Hallelujah while doing push-ups in your kitchen," I answer. "That'll definitely get their attention. Try it out. If that doesn't work, try doing it with a cup of juice on your back."

He lets out a laugh. "You're brilliant."

"Always at your service." I raise my legs to wrap arms around them.

"Hey, Bella… I'm sorry, uh. Sorry your first kiss had to be like that," he says, and he looks so sincere and apologetic with his face all twisted like that. He casts me a pained glance.

Please, please don't apologize. It breaks my heart that you'd be sorry about that kiss.

We both watch as a car approaches the house, and I get up. "It's fine. I guess it's a good thing I'm not going to marry the first guy that I kiss, huh?" I lean in to give him a silly kiss on his cheek. "Go talk to your parents. And be honest. Meanwhile, I'll go and see if that's Phil who arrived."

He gets up, too, and with both of our hands in our pockets, we walk back to the house.

"Bella, you're just… there are no words, you know?"

"I would hope so." I snicker. "Wouldn't want to be covered with compliments or anything."

He smiles, and I'm engulfed in one of his wonderful hugs. "I really am sorry that I took your first kiss from you."

"Jesus, Edward. Apologize once more and I will take offence that you were so repulsed by it."

"I'm not—"

"Shh. I know, you're too nice for that. Let's just drop it."

And he does.

"So… who's Phil?"

"Oh. Mom's boyfriend. Apparently he's here to talk to me and my brother. Maybe he's got an extra pair of goose slippers or something."

Phil has indeed arrived. I encourage Edward to talk to his parents, and ask for Emmett to join me and Phil. Seeing that Phil will be in a bit of a hurry if he has to be in SeaTac in an hour (it takes half an hour to get there), I suggest that instead of finding a cafeteria, we could occupy one of Cullen-Hales' many rooms. So Phil sets down a single stack of papers, and I close both kitchen doors.

Phil looks so utterly exhausted I fill a plate with food. He's grateful.

"So, how have you guys been?"

"Ah, you know, Emmett is applying for colleges and I'm half-way falling in love with my best friend. It's an unrequited disaster. How're you?"

Emmett gives me a shit-eating grin, and even when I nudge him, he makes that annoying lovey-dovey mock face brothers are so good at.

So I put an ice-cube in his shirt. That should keep him occupied for a while.

Phil seems amused by our antics, but he shrugs. "All things considered, I'm alright. Pretty busy."

"Not that we aren't happy to see you, but what brings you here?"

He slides two copies of the same thing in front of us, and in large, bold letters, it says, _Last Will and Testament_.

I swallow. "So is this, like, the reading of a will?"

"No. There is no reading of a will nowadays. I can only assume they used to do it because many people mentioned in them were illiterate and they wanted to avoid confusion," he explains. "Just read through the document. It's only a few pages. We'll discuss the contents of it."

"But… but mom was so young," Emmett says (having successfully removed my ice-cube from his shirt). "Why would she have written a will?"

"Read it first. We'll discuss later."

Phil eats and watches us read, and we do. Both Emmett and I are at one point confused by the amount of legal mumbo jumbo, so we ask to clarify, and he does.

"Well?" he asks when we're both done reading.

"I'm still confused—why would she have written a will?"

"I've been raised to be very specific about those things, and when her income grew, I suggested that she should at least have an outline."

"So you're trying to tell us that we now own two spa resorts, or destination spa, or whatever you call it, and co-own the third one?"

"Yes."

"I know she worked there, but owning those places… where did she get the money?"

"I helped her out at first. She continued on her own, mostly."

"So, really, by agreeing to take these, we're taking your money, not hers," says Emmett.

"No. It's hers now, which makes it yours."

"How big was your input?"

"Not much. Maybe one fifth of what she owned."

"But neither of us knows anything about having a successful business."

"That's why I'm here."

"You want to buy them?"

"If you feel like you want to sell them," he says. "Listen—you don't have to decide anything today. I just happened to be here on a business trip, and I wanted to see you face to face rather than sending you a confusing document. Is there a chance you'll cause trouble for each other for being equal partners in this?"

"You mean are we going to get the other killed to keep the money? No."

"Good. Has either of you thought of majoring in business?"

I shake my head. Emmett hesitates, but then shakes his head, too.

"So what do you suggest we do?"

"Think about it." Half of the stack of paper in front of him lands in front of me, half in front of Emmett. "Read about it. Don't worry too much."

"So is there like a secret clause in this?" I ask.

"A what?"

"A secret clause, you know, person A will only get his share if he gets married by the age of yada-yada and if he doesn't become a cokehead, that kind of stuff."

He chuckles. "No. But your father thinks you should only be able to get the money—or full responsibility—at the age of twenty one, and only earlier in case your need for the money is directly associated with furthering your education. I personally think your mother would have agreed."

"Emmett, would you be okay with that?" I ask, turning to my brother. I can't remember the last time I saw him look so serious.

"Yeah, I mean, is that to make sure we wouldn't go nuts after realizing how rich we'd become overnight?"

"You could say that. People almost always lose perspective if too much resource is thrown at too eager hands."

"How much exactly are we talking about?"

"Just enough to comfortably pay for your college."

Emmett and I look at each other, really look at each other, and I think we're both more than okay with that. I mean, he's not here to tell us we've magically gained so much money we'd never have to work in our lives.

"Phil? Do you know anything about owning a business?"

"I own several."

"Would there be a way of putting you in charge of what we own until we're old enough to need the money or figure out what we want to do?"

So we discuss it. It's kind of surreal. Emmett and I keep looking at each other as if our fairy godmother decided to turn up and make it possible for us to attend a good college (should we get into one) even if we fail to get a scholarship. At what expense, though. We're not grinning, ear from ear, thinking our futures are all set and shit, because there is no doubt in our minds this should never have happened. I'd take having mom here with us over having less trouble paying tuition any day.

By the time Phil has to leave, we've given our signatures to several papers (after having read the documents to dad on Skype, whom Emmett and I decided to call). Phil leaves, and in a daze, Emmett and I simply sit around Jasper's oak kitchen table, completely baffled by what has just transpired. Several people enter and exit the room, and we simply sit there.

The rest of the evening flies by, and when it's time to leave, I'm semi-asleep on the couch. Edward comes to wake me, so I sleepily follow him to the car. I only notice that it's just the two of us in the car when we're already on our way. I smell polish. I look around, and yes, it's a new-looking car. Extra clean.

"I take it you settled things with your parents."

"More or less," he replies, glancing at me and smiling at my sleepiness. "Either way, the car can't stay at Jasper's."

I nod and ask permission to take off my old Ugg boots to curl up, and I get it. So I wrap my arms around legs, still clutching mom's _Last Will and Testament_ along with other stacks of documents, and before I know it, Edward is drawing lazy circles on my jaw.

"We're home, sleepyhead."

I hum and rub sleep from my eyes.

As we approach the house (Edward has thrown a hand on my shoulder because I'm too sleepy to be coordinated), Edward says, "You know, I'm surprised you haven't noticed you've given me three gifts, and even with our agreement, I only gave you one when you should've gotten two. I'm sorry if you're disappointed."

"Oh, that didn't even occur to me. I don't really care much. You can just write me a poem and we're even."

"I actually had a better idea, and I asked your dad's permission, too, but it's a risky gift, so can you just wait in the parlor until I call for you from my room?"

"A risky gift? My dad's permission?" I am immediately awake. "Are you going to propose? Why, Edward..."

"No, uh—nothing like that. It's just, well, you'll see."

I do as I'm told, (Edward also tells me I should change into something comfortable, so I do), and when I sit on the couch in our parlor, fighting with sleep, Edward opens his door, but before he's able to say anything, a dark brown beast of a dog runs out. He's barking like there's no tomorrow, jumps on the couch, smells me and starts licking my face. I'm wide awake.

Ho-lee fuck, Edward got me a dog. He got me a dog!

It's official. I'm in love.

I hug the beast, he growls so I let go, but then he starts to lick my face again. I cannot stop grinning, so I let the dog go, hop up from the couch, and jump at Edward. Literally. Luckily, he notices me coming quickly enough to be able to catch me, so now I straddle his waist as he bumps into a table and backs up onto the wall. I hug him and beam at him and seriously, this dude is amazing.

"Jesus, Bella," he lets out, half-surprised and half-amused but mostly very happy to see me happy.

"You got me a pit bull, Edward! A _pit_ _bull_!" I squeal like the girl I've never been. "Do you know what that means? You're my _bestest_ friend, Edward. How did you know? Did you ask my dad if I'd wanted a dog? How did my dad agree to this? How did _yours_? Oh, God, Emmett will be so jealous! What's his name? Or is it a she? How did you know I always wanted a dog? I would totally have sex with your right now if you wanted to because I'm so happy! Where did you get him? How old is he?"

"Jesus, Bella," he repeats, having no other choice but to support me by putting hands under my bottom, and just when he does, I come back to my senses and suddenly, a conversation with Emmett from the laundry room makes me notice that me straddling Edward does, indeed, make him a little, uh, uncomfortable. He's aroused. I immediately flush beetroot red, even though I can't take it personally, I mean—he's not reacting like this because it's me, he's reacting like this because I'm a woman and for men, it's maybe sort of uncontrollable, you know?

Oh, you do? Well, I don't.

Either way, I ask him to put me down, and he carefully does just that. His hair is all over the place, his neat and tidy button-down doesn't look so neat and tidy anymore; he looks frazzled and molested and so incredibly sexy.

"I'm, um, sorry I molested you."

He laughs, and it's almost like a rumble from the middle of his chest. He clears his throat, but what he lets out is barely audible. "Impossible."

"No, I'm pretty sure that was sexual abuse right there," I reply, and I lean in to put a wet kiss on his cheek. "So I'm sorry about that. I'm just so happy! You got me a _pit_ _bull_!"

It looks like he can't help but keep the dopey smile off his face, either, because he gives me this tender, caring look as he leans to kiss my cheek and starts telling me all about _him_. I can't tear my eyes off the dog. Or Edward.

Edward is one fuckawesome dude, you know?

: :

So, on Monday (yesterday), I went to see a psychologist. My psychologist's practice is on the twenty first floor on Columbia Street, just a couple of blocks away from Harborview Medical Center. Even without a high-class interior, it is clear at the blink of an eye that this place—these people—are out of my price range.

Thanks, Edward's Dad Whatever Your First Name Is, I'm going to have to rob a bank for this. I just know it.

James T. Hunter's office (overlooking Puget Sound) feels cozy, with two couches, an armchair, shelves and shelves of books, and fastidiously clean surfaces. I wonder if he's a hypochondriac. If I sneeze, is he going to make a swarm of surgeons disinfect this place inch by inch? His assistant urged me to enter the office, but upon entering, it became clear he's not here himself. I wonder if this is some sort of a test. Maybe he's got a few cameras to observe what will draw my attention and scrutinize and analyze my behavior and diagnose me with psychotic depression.

Or maybe I should be here for paranoia. Maybe he's just busy and talking to a patient. What the hell, Bella.

As is to be expected, the office draws my attention, so I drop my bag and observe the few paintings on the walls (nothing recognizable, just a few blobs of color—maybe for mood-setting? I don't know) and his books: mostly psychology related, but there's a whole shelf dedicated to Milan Kundera's different editions of _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_.

Interesting.

I keep walking counter clock-wise and reach a framed diploma, an M. A. degree from Metropolitan Community College (Kansas City, MO). It surprises me. But Edward's dad is a reputable doctor, and I trust his judgment. He did emphasize that I could and should change my psychologist if I find Dr. James T. Hunter unsuitable, but he also said he'd known him for years and he's good at what he does. Of course my thorough knowledge in the field of psychology makes me an expert, so we argued for hours. Not.

I have no idea what to expect. Not a thought. A few prejudices? Yes. Actual knowledge about what a psychologist does on a daily basis? Nope.

I mean, I guess I'm nervous, but at the same time, I hope he isn't just going to sit there, asking, "And how does that make you feel?" Not because I'd mind answering that question, but because I'm afraid I'll burst into laughter. And I don't want to be rude, it's just, you know, _that_ question.

As I stand there, he enters the room and joins me, and I glance at him. He's a balding man in his late sixties, perhaps? He's paunchy, he's wearing genuinely old old-school glasses, he's dressed casually in a cardigan and unflattering sandals. An old, forked tattoo extends over his barely noticeable double chin. I'm intrigued.

He remains silent, seemingly observing the same piece of paper I'm looking at.

"So what's it like in Kansas City?"

"Lots of friendly people and fountains."

"Sounds fierce."

He takes a clipboard and asks for me to sit on the couch as he sits on an armchair. I'm pretty sure he could decipher my body language in his sleep, so I fight with the urge to cross my arms or legs or fiddle, or actually, do anything at all. I don't think I've ever sat so still. I feel kind of naked, afraid that he'll take my slightest gesture and start interpreting and twisting it in a way I'm not comfortable with.

"That's a first," he says, throwing one leg over the other and looking at me.

"I'm the first one not to fiddle?"

"No," he replies. "You're the first one not to express doubt at my qualification after having seen that I only got my Master's from a community college."

I shrug. "I kind of figured… you can study anywhere, right? It's not the name behind the school, it's the drive behind the person, or something like that."

He smiles, and I'm not quite sure how to interpret it. He's got two golden teeth right next to each other, one slightly larger than the other, and yet, his smile is warm. I think.

"Want to hear a secret?"

I raise my eyebrows, and he closes the door. Behind it stands a diploma, James T. Hunter, PhD, Harvard University, Department of Psychology. Okay, I admit. I'm scared shitless. This is intimidating. I'm pretty sure he could tear me apart piece by piece and make me cry about each and every ant that bit me when I was little. And I don't think I was bitten by ants all that much during my childhood. _That's_ how intimidated I am.

He leaves the door closed and sits back down.

"I'm intrigued."

"Care to elaborate?"

"You have a PhD from Harvard University and a Master's Degree from a community college, and yet, you display the second and not the first. I imagine you have a good motive, too."

"Any guesses?"

"Either you're ashamed of having gone to an Ivy League school, which I doubt, or you want to elicit a reaction, or you'd rather surprise people by being better than they might expect from a man who went to a community college."

"Interesting."

"Did I nail it?"

"I'm more interested in prejudice, so in a way, you were right."

"So where do I place on the scale of prejudice? Am I a threat to society?"

"Hardly," he answers and smiles. He gets up for a moment to offer his hand. "Isabella Swan, it's a pleasure. I must apologize, I hate starting with introductions. My name is James. You can call me Dr. Hunter or Jammy."

I chuckle.

"Carlisle gave me the name in college. Nobody calls me James anymore."

"I'd rather use Dr. Hunter, then, or I won't be able to take you seriously."

He leans back on his armchair, clipboard in hand. "I heard you're staying with Carlisle's family."

"I am."

"How do you like it there?"

"They couldn't be more welcoming if they tried."

"How do you feel about your dad leaving the state at this point in your life?"

"I'm proud of him."

"And?"

"That's it. I think he made the right decision."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"An older brother. He's a year older than me. He's the reason I'm here."

"Oh?"

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, so I nod.

"Mature of him to see and suggest you need help."

"If he wants."

"Pardon?"

"He's mature if he wants to be."

He smiles that not-unhappy-but-not-quite-pleased-either smile of his.

"So you don't think you need help?"

"I do. I just don't believe you could help me."

"Me in particular or me as a psychologist?"

"As a psychologist."

"Has your experience with psychologists not been positive?"

"I've never seen one before."

"But since you've voluntarily stepped into my office, I assume you agree I might be able to help you."

"Just because I agree I need help doesn't mean I want to receive it."

He writes down something in that clipboard of his, and for some reason, it annoys me like nothing else. I wish he'd just tell me what's wrong and how to fix it.

"Carlisle mentioned you suffered a significant loss recently," he continues. "I'm sorry."

This might as well have been said by a matchbox. He makes me feel so defiant, and even though I bullshit and burst into silliness on a daily basis, I don't deliberately provoke reactions I want to see. Right now? I'm tempted.

"Is it written in your job description to pretend to care? Do you need my opinion about every insignificant detail of my life? Am I supposed to watch out for my language and gestures and posture and mood because I have no control over how you feel you should interpret them? Or can we just cut to the chase?"

He puts his clipboard next to him and rests his elbows on his knees. Something flashes in his eyes. "Or we could do this."

"What?"

"You yell questions at me that you give me no time to answer."

"I wasn't yelling."

"I don't mind."

"Are you going to play mind games with me? Are you already doing it?"

"So you do want me to answer your questions?"

I'm exasperated. I'm discouraged by the fact that he hasn't done anything and he's already showing me a side of myself that I don't like. I take a breath, and I know he might be watching my every move, but I still hide my hands between my knees.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I'm pretty blunt, but I'm usually not downright rude for no reason," I say, and take another deep breath.

"You can yell at me if that's what you want to do."

"That bothers me."

"Yelling?"

"The suggestion that doing so is okay."

"It is. You're expressing an emotion."

"I'd like to be able to control my way of expressing it."

"You think feeling anger is okay, but expressing it is not?"

"Expressing is okay, I just want it to be on my own terms."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"When I feel embarrassed, for example, I want to be able to express it by laughing at the situation. When I feel angry, I want to be able to express it by doing twenty crutches. Or by making a blunt joke—not by yelling. Something like that."

He writes something on his clipboard.

"Would it be against the rules for you not to write things down?"

He finishes what he was writing (I assume), and puts down his clipboard. "Does it bother you?"

"It makes me very self-aware. I start to analyze everything that caused you to write things down. I imagine that you repeatedly write down, 'Isabella Swan—Incorrigible Idiot.'"

He lets out air from his nose, sort of like a sharp huffing sound, but his eyes tell me he's amused.

"It would help me remember our conversation later on, but I guess I could make an exception."

"Thank you."

"So, it appears you have some questions."

"Do I have reason to be self-aware? Do you really analyze my every thought and gesture?"

"In no way do I claim to own any telepathic powers. Reading body language only goes so far, and fails to work once you're as self-aware as you seem to be. There's no reason to be. I'm only here to listen and help."

"So when I cross my arms, you won't immediately draw the conclusion that I'm closed-off or protecting myself?"

"Or maybe you're just cold? What I do or do not believe about you, Isabella, is of no consequence."

"Nice. Sneaking in my name like that. Is that supposed to make me feel special?"

"Or maybe repeating it helps me remember," he replies. I don't know how he does it, but he makes me feel confronted without actually confronting me. It's unsettling.

"So what if I just want to cut to the chase? Then what?"

"Then we figure out the best way to help you."

"So you don't need all that jibber-jabber about my life?"

"It would certainly help me get to know you. Each person heals differently. Helping you without knowing you would be neither effective nor professional."

"What about my childhood?"

"What about it?"

"Are we going to end up psychoanalyzing it? Doesn't every deep issue go back to our childhood? Does crying over shit that happened ten years ago ever really help?"

"Depending on the person. What helps you might not help your brother. What helps your best friend might not help your neighbor. It's not all black and white."

"That's so vague."

"What really interests me is that you've just spent half an hour on deflecting the issue when you're so eager to confront it and cut to the chase. Despite your current skepticism, I have dealt with grief counseling the most. I'm adequate at helping people overcome it."

Oh, fuck.

Edward's dad referred me to Dr. Hunter because he's good at helping people deal with _loss_.

I stand. "This was a mistake."

He nods, stands, puts his left hand in his pocket and sways on his sandals. He offers his right hand. "Regardless, it was nice meeting you, Isabella Swan."

I'm blown away. He doesn't even _care_.

"Likewise."

I pack up my stuff and rush past a stunned-looking assistant, but just when I wait for the elevator's ding, I realize I left my hat and mittens on the couch. Uh. This is going to be awkward. So I turn, sighing, and rush past the assistant again. Dr. Hunter is still sitting in the armchair, leaning back as he writes something in that trunk-colored clipboard of his. He looks up. I motion at my woolen belongings and take them. I stand there for a few seconds, looking at him.

"It bothers me," I finally admit. My voice is quiet.

"Pardon?"

"The fact that you just let me leave like this. That you don't even care," I say. "It bothers me a great deal."

"Why?"

"There's so much negligence in this world," I reply. "You get paid to care but you don't. What hope does that leave for the rest of us?"

"I get paid to help, not care."

I stand there, looking at him as I consider the pros and cons of leaving versus the pros and cons of staying. If I leave now, Emmett might make me see another person. Edward's dad might refer me to another person. I don't know if what Michael Newton did to me will be a portable issue in my life, if it will affect my life in the future, if I find myself lacking as a sexual partner one day… but if there's a chance it will undermine my sense of self-worth, I shouldn't walk away. It would be a coward's way out.

And, as peculiar this sandal-wearing tattoo-owning psychologist is, there's just _something_ about him that makes me accept him. Maybe it's how he challenges me without actually doing anything, or how he gives me free will to approach this however I want to. Just… _something_.

In a momentary act of bravery or cowardice—depending on your point of view—I sit opposite him, still in my jacket.

"I want you to help me."

Something flashes in his eyes, a glint of happiness or understanding or knowledge, and he nods, motioning for me to take off my coat. I do.

"How did you know I'd come back?"

"You kept confronting me."

"And that shows something?"

"You're not as afraid as you think you are."

See? Jibber-jabber.

"What if I hadn't come back?"

"Then you would be outside."

I laugh. He's startled by the sound, and I think he's equally startled by my character.

"You do care," I accuse. He smiles, and I know he does.

"I'm not here because my mother died," I rush to explain. "I mean, we can talk about that, too, if you think it'll help, but I have something else I want help with."

He does this hand motion as if saying 'continue.' And even tough, half an hour ago, I spoke about cutting right to the chase, I don't think I can do that.

"Is it, uh, okay if we work up to that?"

"Of course."

"So what am I supposed to do? Do people lie on the couch?"

"Most do. Some don't. Depends on what you feel comfortable with."

I lie on the couch, put my hands on my stomach and stare at the ceiling. I feel silly. The moment my feet are on the armrest, I slide them off and sit up again. I can't lie on this couch. I'll never be able to take these sessions seriously. So I curl my feet underneath my body and lean on the armrest instead.

"So what's up with your sandals?"

He huffs, that sharp noise from his nose, and chuckles. It's as close to a laugh as he can get, it seems.

"Isabella Swan, I do believe we'll get along just fine."

For the subsequent twenty minutes, he asks me more questions about my life, mostly general, makes me fill out a personality test—which, surprisingly, isn't one of those see-through tests where you can immediately understand what they want, and therefore, manipulate with the answers depending on how you want to view yourself—and overall, it's not too bad. The first time he asks an open-ended question where I recognize I'm supposed to provide a _deep_, _meaningful_ answer, I call him out on it. He's surprised. (After all, it is his job to get me to ponder on my deep and meaningful answers.) After his third attempt, he no longer tries. And it's not that I'm purposefully trying to be rude, but I want to recognize the moments he's really evaluating me. And sorry, Jammy, it won't happen today.

And, no, I don't want to recognize the moments he evaluates me to change my answers or whatnot. No. I just feel the need to understand how this is supposed to help me.

"So, does Fridays at four PM work for you?" he asks after we're finished with talking more about me than I've ever talked. In my _life_.

"But first, I really need to know if I need to sell one of my kidneys to pay for this. Or both of them."

He stands up, gripping that clipboard of his again. "Don't worry about that," he says. "Carlisle is an old friend of mine. We go way back. He's performed heart surgery on me and I owe him more favors than I could ever return."

"Regardless, I want to pay for myself. How much does a usual session with you cost?"

"It's no problem."

"How much?"

"It's not an issue, Isabella."

"I'm not leaving until I know how much this'll cost me."

"You really want to know?" He stares at me, scratching his tattoo-covered neck. "155 $ per session."

Ho-lee fuck, I'm going to sell my furniture _and_ dignity to be able to afford this.

I hold out my hand. "I guess this is it, then. It was nice meeting you, Dr. Hunter."

He doesn't even recognize my hand. "But, as already promised, I'll help you for free."

"Why would you?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you'd lose money every time we meet."

He places the clipboard on the table, and puts both hands in his pockets. "Is it really that you don't want to receive help? Or do you feel like you don't _deserve_ help?"

Psycho jibber-jabber. I hate it. I hate it because I'm angered by his comment. I'm angered by his comment because I know it's close to home. He's right. I just want to scream my lungs out because of his audacity to believe he's got me all figured out after talking to me for an hour. It bothers me. Am I really that transparent? I kind of thought I'm a halfway decent human being. But if you're able to figure me out that quickly… that's kind of disappointing.

"I do," I reply, the only possible reply I could give.

"And do you like challenges?"

"I'd say I do."

"So I'm asking you to receive help despite your feelings of unworthiness."

"How is that a challenge?"

"Alright, so it's not a problem for you to agree to my help."

This man is really something, let me tell you.

I guess I'll confront Edward's dad about this.

I sigh. "Alright."

"Good," he replies, and goes to sit behind his table. "Now, I want to give you some homework. I understand your primary reason for coming here is not your mother's death, but I want to address the issue sooner rather than later. I want you to write a letter to her. Write about whatever you feel. I will not ask to see it unless you want me to, but seeing how much was left unresolved between you because of your distance prior to her passing away, I think it would help."

I feel conflicted about this exercise of his, I love it and hate it and ugh, this man just _gets_ to me.

"Okay."

He smiles, I'm not sure whether it's pleased or not, but it's a smile, so I feel like returning it.

"So, Carlisle told me you attend North Cedar High School at the edge of Kirkland. One of my granddaughters just recently moved here, and I think she went to your Christmas party to see what she's getting. Her name is Alice Brandon."

Okay, what am I supposed to say? I need to pee.

"Never heard of her."

"I figured. She's a lovely girl, but she has trouble finding friends. As her grandfather, I feel obliged to ask if you could introduce yourself to her, just so she'd know someone. For her to feel welcome."

"No problem."

"She's actually here right now, so if you have a moment, you could have a word with her."

At that moment, I'm kind of in my zone. I don't know. I don't even feel out of my element to go and introduce myself to a girl who doesn't know anyone. I'd love to help out. He offers to introduce us himself, but I refuse, so I go to the (living-room looking) waiting room, and observe the place for the description Dr. Hunter provided. There are six people in the room (Dr. Hunter is the founder of his practice where four fellow psychologists work, so they're not necessarily here for him) but spotting a petite, stylish-looking girl with short black hair and delicate features isn't difficult at all.

She's gorgeous.

I really, really need to pee.

So I figure, I'll go to the bathroom first and introduce myself later, but in order to do that, I need to pass her. As I do, she catches a glimpse of me, and goes back to talking to the girl by her side. I think nothing of it until I hear bits of her conversation that make me… just… yeah.

"…anyone be more similar to a horse? Seriously. Hee-haw. Talk about a _butter_-face," she snickers, thinking she's all clever and quiet and subtle and shit. "And that nose, Jesus, _I_'ll pay for her nose job so I wouldn't bear witness..."

I quietly close the bathroom door.

So we're back to that, huh.

Fucking hell. A lovely girl? Finds it difficult to find friends? I wonder why. Can't wrap my head around it.

Why do girls talk shit behind your back without it being behind your back? This is why I don't have close female friends. If Angela came up to me to explicitly tell me a story about not just hilarious and good natured oddity of a girl she saw, but downright mean shit, I would slap her.

Sticks and stones, my ass.

Words hurt.

See, diary? Emmett? Whoever. It's not just in my head. But why do people judge me by my appearance before getting to know me? Does she think that just because I don't look like her, I'm underneath her? Does it boost her ego to think she's prettier than everyone else? I didn't think about any prejudices—not a single one—after I saw she was beautiful. I didn't think she must be airheaded or mean or arrogant. I didn't. I have plenty of beautiful friends, and they don't talk shit about me. And if they do, at least they have the decency to not shove it down my throat.

And why do I still, after all these years, take it to heart? Why can't I genuinely not care?

I relieve myself before I take a deep breath and wash my face with cold water. Every imperfection is screaming at me, every ugly bit. I just feel like the scum on the dirt of a piece of shit that got dragged around in a bigger piece of shit. That's how attractive those words make me feel. Furthermore, I start to doubt that little ray of light I discovered when it struck me that Edward might simply be holding back. To hell he is. The likelihood of a guy like him being even remotely attracted to me in a romantic way is not slim to none. It's none. That's why he's being touchy-feely without initiating anything (without Emmett forcing him to). That's why he hasn't said anything. Because he doesn't _feel_ anything. I wouldn't deserve his affection, but at least I know it now.

It still hurts like hell to realize this. It's physically painful. It fucking _aches_.

But I take another breath, push the door open and face the lovely Alice Brandon.

"…in need of a plastic surgeon, seriously. Though I doubt it would fix her fashion sense, have you ever seen a scarf that—"

Still going on about me, huh? Get a fucking life.

I clear my throat, and plaster the biggest fucking smile that my face muscles have ever achieved. Kill them with kindness.

"You're Alice Brandon, right? I heard you're lovely. Your grandfather told me you're attending my school next year. That's pretty amazing. You'll be a hit for sure."

You'll be hit by my fist if you keep shitting on my self-esteem.

She looks at my lips like she's never seen words come out from someone's mouth before, and then into my eyes. She's startled by the mere fact that I'm talking. To her. Or maybe it's because someone as ugly and lowly as me would have the audacity to speak to her. I don't want to know.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're gorgeous, everyone'll love you."

She briefly looks at her uncomfortable-looking friend, and her face lights up, but it doesn't look genuine at all. "Thanks. I mean, I know the color of my eye shadow doesn't really match with my blouse, and I just had a bad-hair day…"

Bitch, please.

Fucking hell, there is nothing more annoying than a drop-dead gorgeous girl trying to pretend she doesn't know she is.

"Don't worry, though. It's perfect."

She smiles, and I've never seen a smile as fake as hers. I can't look at her anymore, so I wave half-heartedly and turn around to leave. Just before I turn the corner, she calls out to me.

"Hey! What's your name?"

I turn my face without moving my body. The four remaining people in the room look at me.

"Oh, it's Isabella Butter-Face Swan. My friends just call me Hee-Haw, though."


	15. On the Field, Under the Stars

"To my mind, the only possible pet is a cow. Cows love you. They will listen to your problems and never ask a thing in return. They will be your friends forever. And when you get tired of them, you can kill and eat them. Perfect." ― Bill Bryson

: :

_Sunday, the 2__nd__ of January  
5:45 AM, listening to Hans Zimmer's Time. It's pretty epic. The moment I laid on the carpet, Ping Pong snuggled up beside me. He's now snoring and waggling his tail every once in a while._

I wish I could spend one day—just one day—seeing people's reactions to me without having the experience in life that I do. No thoughts, no judgment, just observing my reality as it is from another person's point of view. If I could direct a movie, I'd like to direct one where you only get to see people's reactions to the "camera" and not a glimpse of the person telling the story.

Why can't my life be never-ending progress? Is it always going to be one step forward, two steps back kind of thing? Why can't I reach a certain point of confidence and never question my self-esteem again?

I want that.

I feel weak being affected by something as trivial as words. I don't want set-backs. Regardless of what I want, though, my life is not directed by anyone but me.

If only I had experience directing. Maybe Christopher Nolan would be up for directing my life. How exciting would that be?

Now, I would love to say I didn't let that girl get to me, but she dug up some deep shit that I thought would never hurt me again, and I'm literally crying all the way home. I even get off two bus stops before Edward's, just to be able to get it all out. Don't hold in your emotions and all that, right? Well, holding anything in is no longer a problem. I am a wreck. Fortunately, when I get home, nobody's there, so I get to lie on this plush parlor carpet, hug Ping Pong and cry. A lot. Unfortunately, I fall asleep doing just that, and when I open my eyes, Edward is kneeling beside me, frowning.

"What happened?"

I'm sure my eyes are puffy and red from "not holding in my emotions," which probably convinces him that someone hurt me. Well. He's right.

But I'm not about to tell him that. So I don't.

I sit up, careful not to wake Ping Pong. "Nothing. I was just tired."

"Bella, I might not be able to read you most of the time, but this is the one time I know you're shitting me. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I reply, rubbing my eyes. "Just a bad moment."

He looks doubtful.

After that evening, we make it a habit to watch a film in the parlor every night. Edward often writes on his laptop (I'd die to see what he's writing, but since I wouldn't want him to snoop around and read my diary, I don't ask), but he's sitting so that I can only see the back of his Macintosh. Sometimes, he looks up at me (which makes me smile), and he gets this secret smile on his face. He doesn't seem to particularly care for most of what I'm watching, even though he insists on being okay with watching together.

You know what? Edward is a different person when he writes. He's in a world of his own. Even when he looks at me as if he can see right through me, when I say something, he's so concentrated that I usually have to repeat myself.

The first evening, I decide to torture him a little and make him watch _Titanic_. I don't think he enjoyed it too much. I bawl my eyes out (as you do when you see DiCaprio freeze to death), and Edward just stares at me, wanting to say something.

"What?"

He tilts his head to one side. "Nothing."

"Let it out."

He tries not to smile. "It's not like you didn't know he was going to die."

"You're a smug bastard."

He laughs like what I just said caused incomparable happiness. He shakes his head, chuckling as he kisses my (tear-stained) cheek and goes to write on his laptop. Next evening, he chooses to watch _Misery_ (1990)—because I won't shut up about it, probably—and the moment I point Cathy Bates out to him, Edward looks back and forth between the screen and me, and lets out a long, "No." Like really long. Like, _nooooo_.

He, apparently, doesn't think we look similar at all.

I usually hold myself back around my friends, knowing that they don't enjoy obscure independent films as much as I do, or foreign films where you have to read subtitles, but I miss watching them. I mean, Hollywood mainstream films can be good, too. I really hate it when people go all apeshit about mainstream things, claiming that since so many people enjoy them, they must've been badly-made. That's such a shitty, elitist approach. What's wrong with a film you can enjoy? Seriously. A mainstream film can be good. Independent film can be full of shit. Enjoyment is only a part of movie experience. It's not all black and white.

But Edward says he doesn't mind watching a foreign film, so I happily choose _La Règle du jeu_, The Rules of the Game (1939) because I've heard (read, really) many wonderful things about that film. I rent it and start watching. And you know what? There's this quote by a maid named Lisette (I think), when she says, "Friendship with a man? That's asking for moonlight at midday."

And the thing is, Edward looks up from his laptop _after_ the quote, and then he briefly locks eyes with me before he returns to writing (not showing any emotion) and I just _know_ he understood without having to see the subtitles. I know he did. I ask him, and apparently, he's in AP French, and he's surprised by the fact that I do _not_ speak a foreign language. (I'm only fluent in English and Sarcasm, and I'm not so sure about the former.) I mean, I take Spanish (as you do), I just suck at it.

But when Edward realizes I wouldn't understand without subtitles and cannot speak a word of French, he recites a poem. _In_ _French_. That is fucking hot. I wish I knew the author, I wish I knew French so I could write it here (and Google it to know what he was saying), but I don't. When he's finished, he beams a smile a mile wide, and says he's now found a way to say what he means without me understanding any of it.

He continues to infuriate me by saying stuff in French, and gives me a nickname in French—but since my knowledge of French phonetics is non-existent, I cannot even Google it to understand him—all the while refusing to tell me what he's saying.

Smug bastard.

Anyhow, on Wednesday, I enter that beige and towering and intimidating Harborview Medical Centre to see a gynecologist. I've decided seeing a gynecologist is one of the boldest things a girl could do. Especially one without any sexual experience. My G.P. told me it would be wisest for me to see an expert because of how late my period started and to make sure I would be given the right pills and all that. I'm not going to argue.

Really, I should've gone to Pacific Gynecology Specialists at Madison Street, but there's a renovation going on and my gynecologist is seeing patients in Harborview Medical Centre. They're nearby, so it's not a problem.

The problem arrives when I've given away my coat and start to pass Edward and his dad in a corridor. (I am so mortified at that point that it barely registers that I don't know what Edward is doing here.) They're engaged in a conversation, and really, I'd rather just die than have to explain why I'm here, so I halt, and very slowly, start to turn around. But before I get to do a one eighty, Edward calls out my name.

I am mortified. Please kill me.

Edward's dad's pager goes off just when he sees me, so he offers a greeting and he's gone. But not Edward. He stands there in his dark jeans and blue button-down, looking all hot and disheveled. He would make one fuckhot doctor. But of course, he has no idea why I'm here because obviously, I very much want to talk to him about my gynecologist's appointment. Not.

"I volunteer here," he explains before I can even open my mouth. "What about you? Are you alright?"

"You _volunteer_ at the hospital?"

He frowns. "Yeah?"

"You're serious."

"Why?"

"Alright, Edward." I look at my imaginary wrist watch. "You've got thirty seconds to list all those things you're horrible at. Go."

"Wait, what?"

"List all the things you suck at. There is no way guys as amazing as you exist, so I must not know you too well. Thirty seconds. Go."

He grins. "Guys as amazing as me, huh?"

"You really are a smug bastard."

He keeps that grin on his face.

"So what're you doing here?"

"Oh, me? Well, I'm a closet nymphomaniac. I figured, since I like masturbating so much, I'd want to jump into bed with Laurent as soon as possible. So I need some, you know, protection."

He inhales sharply, but then he takes a good look at my unfaltering smile, and he relaxes. "Jesus, Bella—you're kidding."

"Not about the masturbating." I laugh at his gaping. "Of course I'm kidding. I just wanted to have an exciting answer."

"So you're really here for…"

"Birth control pills. It's thrilling."

He scowls, pursing his lips together in a line when he rushes me to the side of the corridor. "Bella—I know you're new to this, but please don't rush into anything just because you go out with a guy. Never let yourself be forced into anything. Alright?"

"Yes, dad."

"Bella…"

"Edward, it's just for my cycle to be regular with me working out so much every morning with increasing intensity." I feel a faint blush in spite of myself. "That's my exciting answer."

"Jesus, you scared me."

"We should really have sex, Edward. I wonder if you'd call me God, too."

He bursts into laughter, and I smile. I look at the time, and I really need to go, but before I do, Edward asks me to find him before I leave so we could leave together. How sweet is he?

Just after we've parted ways, I look back at him and yell, "Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"I tutor on Saturday and work at the cinema on the weekends."

He looks all confused as I blow him a kiss and rush to my appointment.

It's the same man I saw when I was sixteen, and he's terribly nice. He emphasizes a little too much the pill is useless against STDs, to which I emphasize a little too much that my main priority is to a have a regular cycle, not have unprotected sex. He means well, though, and tells me to immediately let him know if I have uncomfortable side-effects so that we could switch pills.

He also gives me a handful of condoms.

Okay then.

I weighed myself on Tuesday. I'm 112.5 pounds now. I'm pretty proud of my consistent weight gain. I work my ass off at the gym with Mr. Black in the mornings, but I also eat a lot, and the coach seems to be happy with my progress. No, really. I'm growing some stamina.

By the time I text Edward that I'm ready, he's already in the foyer, looking all professional in a grey coat as he jokes with a doctor. Just when Edward's eyes fall on me, said doctor throws his head back and laughs. They shake hands and part ways (with the doctor shaking his head in amusement,) and Edward joins me with a smile.

We enter a crisp winter day. I drag a smiley face on the slightest layer of snow with my foot before Edward and I start walking. For a while, we do just that. We observe people and steal glances at each other.

"We've come a full circle, huh?" I ask, hiding my mitten-clad hands in my pockets.

"A full circle?"

"This is how our friendship started." I motion between the two of us. "Walking."

He lips tug into a smile.

"Holding the pavement?"

"Exactly." I grin. "I can't believe you remember that."

We pass a few elementary schoolers attempting to make a tiny snowman out of the meager amount of snow.

Edward lets out a breath, and I watch the vapor leave his mouth when he says, "I'm actually… not volunteering."

I look at him, waiting for an explanation, and he carefully glances at me. "You seem to see me like I'm this perfect man. I'm not. I'm really not, Bella." And he sounds so sincere and apologetic at the same time, it's almost heartbreaking.

"What were you doing at the hospital then? You seemed to get along with the doctors, too."

"I'm volunteering, sure. I'm just not _voluntarily_ volunteering."

"I can see your lips moving, but all I hear is yabba-dabba-doo."

He lets out a laugh, and I'm glad to have lifted his mood. He's talking about this as if the fact that he's doing it for other reasons makes him a worse person. It doesn't. I'm not even volunteering, voluntarily or not. Does that make me a bad person?

"If you don't want to do it, why do you?"

"It'll look good on my resume."

"And?"

"Dad wants me to do it."

"Ah." I take a moment to look at him, his long eyelashes and evaporating breath. "But we don't live life to fill out a resume, Edward. We live life so we can do this." I search for a pen and a paper. I find the latter from my bag, and after I ask, Edward offers me his pen.

"What're you doing?"

I take my piece of paper and scribble, _You are amazing._

I give Edward back his pen (he frowns at me) and stop the next person passing us, a middle school girl wrapped under layers of clothes. I step in front of her and smile—not to look threatening—and offer her the piece of paper. I probably look like an advertiser, so I tone my grin down a notch and say, "It's for you."

It helps that my piece of paper is pink and totally girly.

She continues to walk as she unwraps my piece of paper, and Edward and I simply stand, side by side, watching her. After she's unwrapped the paper with her mittens, her pace falters and she turns her head. Even from the distance, I can see her flushing a little as she offers us a modest wave and a shy smile with braces. She neatly folds the paper, puts it in her pocket, lowers her head and hides her smile in a scarf. There's newfound spring in her step.

I tug Edward's sleeve but he just stares at me, mouth slightly agape.

"You have that look again."

"What look?"

"That look you get like the rest of humanity left their pants at home and you're the only one wearing them," I answer, tugging his sleeve. "Come on, it's too cold to stand and stare."

We resume to walking. I hide my chin in my scarf.

"It's just that… you're pretty remarkable." He turns his upper body toward me as he says it. I grin and curtsy. Edward chuckles.

"So. You were saying. Why would you do something just because your dad wants you to?"

"He's just… it's complicated. It's the one thing where any argument with him is invalid by default."

"He wants you to become a doctor?"

"Yes," he replies. "And he wants me to attend the same medical school."

"Have you told him you don't want to?"

"No. Because I don't really know that I don't want to. But I don't know that I want to, either. I just hate the continuous lectures about wasting my brain and talent and future and the importance of specializing early. We have these huge arguments about it."

"You know, what I've seen from them and what I hear from you are like two separate universes."

"You don't think my dad's capable of pushing me?"

"I'm sure he is. But your parents, so far they kind of seem like the perfect example of a loving couple. I'd give away all my worldly possessions to have had so much warmth and love when I grew up. I mean—I don't mean anything bad about my own. God, no. But it's—that warmth is kind of difficult to learn as a teenager."

He frowns, looking down at me, and presses his lips in a line.

"Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"Like I'm this weird little girl who grew up without love. I didn't. I don't doubt that my parents love me. But it's one thing to know it, it's another to have felt it. And to have learned to express it without trying to rationalize everything."

Edward throws a hand on my shoulder, but this time, he leaves it there. He kisses my temple, like this really wet, exaggerated kiss, and squeezes my shoulder.

"See? This is what I mean. You're so used to this kind thing that you don't even mean anything by it."

Edward just hums and pulls me closer to him. I smile into my scarf.

"I wasn't going to say that," he replies. "I guess we all want what we don't have, because your dad kind of seems to offer the sort of liberty that I crave. He doesn't seem to push you in any direction. Am I right? He seems the type to let you figure it out yourselves. Right now, I think I need that."

I let out a laugh.

"Well, aren't we just a pair."

He smiles. "Indeed."

"And yet, neither of us would be who we are if our parents hadn't chosen to raise us the way they did."

"So do you know what you want to do in the future?"

"Yes."

"And what is that?"

"You'll laugh."

"I promise I won't."

"Acting," I reply. "I think that's what I want to do."

He leans forward to see my face, and that smile is so sincere it gives me goose bumps. "I think that's a brilliant idea."

"Unrealistic, too."

"Why?"

"Oh, come on." I motion at my face. "They'll want me to do so much plastic surgery I might as well jump off a cliff."

"Bella," he says, one tone away from growling. "There's nothing wrong with the way you look."

"I know," I reply. "But there's not much right with the way I look, either."

"Bella," he repeats, and his tone is awfully close to a reprimand. "I thought you finally understood. Your self-deprecation is getting old."

"Never become a teacher, Edward, you can't scold to save a life."

"I'm serious."

He locks eyes with me, absolutely firm-looking, and I have to laugh.

"I'll be fine. No reason to worry," I reply, and when Edward continues to look like he's chewing on a lime, I decide to change the subject.

"So, what made your dad change his mind about me?"

I couldn't have caught him more off guard if I'd thrown a tomato at his face, or so it seems. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, why did he suddenly decide we're not to be trusted? And why is it important to keep it from me? It feels kind of degrading to be out of the loop."

"How do you—know about this?"

"My intelligence is not as low as my self-esteem, Edward. What I can't figure out is why. Why keep something like this from me? It's so simple."

"It's not like— we didn't…" He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry. It's not a secret, not really, I just don't think that when your dad told mine—"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait." I tear myself out of his arms. "My _dad_? Did you just say my _dad_? Charlie?"

He nods.

I have a really Emmett moment. I hit an invisible punching bag and let out a growl filled with curses. I'm sure it's feminine and lovely. After a half a minute of coarse language, I finally take a breath so deep the chill hurts my lungs.

"So, let me get this straight. _My_ _dad_, Charlie, told _your_ _dad_, whatever his name is, _to_ _tell_ _you_, to not get involved with me?"

He nods, and the fear and regret in his eyes would be so funny if I didn't feel so punched in the gut.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard in my entire life."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I am so pissed at my dad right now it's not even funny. What I don't get is why. Does it look like we're madly in love or something? Because that's just ridiculous. And even if we were, what's it to him? I am so confused. And why the heck would he want to keep it from me?"

"I think he just didn't think it was that important."

"Then why didn't you tell me, Edward?"

If I could see under his hat, I'm sure I could see the tips of his ears turn beetroot purple. He looks away. "I don't think you're ready to hear what I have to say."

I step right in front of him. "My interest is piqued."

He continues to avoid my eyes, but I can tell he's frustrated. "I didn't want you to think that… that if it weren't for your dad, or mine, I would still not—"

"Edward!" I interrupt with a laugh, and it's borderline hysterical. "Did you think I'd start looking into your touchy feely ways? Oh, God. I'm sorry if I've left that impression. I really won't. I know you don't mean anything, and God, us getting involved? That would be like Ben Barnes getting married to a lamp."

He crumples his face and pushes hands into his coat pocket. He might not look at me, but he's sharp and deliberate in his actions as he bypasses me. And, immediately, I know he's annoyed. But more than that, as he motions for us to continue walking, he locks eyes with me, and there's pain in his.

For such an easy-going socializer, Edward sure is intense. And I don't think I'm used to someone caring or noticing my self-esteem, but Edward does, and boy does he ever. It genuinely seems to matter to him that I stop making those comments about myself. But just as I'm about to open my mouth, Edward opens his.

"I think I have more social skills than a lamp," he mutters.

I snort and laugh, because God, he's so backwards but he's so nice and gah, I'm overwhelmed by affection when I look at him. His mouth twitches when I laugh, so I know I'm safe to hug him. And I do. I breathe him in and I squeeze his back and I press my nose in the crook of his neck.

"Every girl with a horrible self-esteem should have a best friend as amazing as you are, Edward."

He hums, squeezing harder. My heart jumps to my throat when I think of how close I am to his lips, but I swallow it back and press an innocent kiss on his cold cheek.

It wasn't even an argument, per se, just a bit leaning sideways, but I just know that somehow, we'll always manage to sort things out. I'll push and he'll bubble with emotion he doesn't want to let out, or he'll push and I'll yell answers so true they can never be taken back. Either way, we'll work things out.

For some reason, that's a thought so assuring and heart-warming that I feel enormously cherished, and suddenly, I'm bubbling with emotion yearning to get out. I want to stay like this. More than that, I want to raise my head and change everything between us. But I don't. I watch his little smile when I pull back, return it, and we keep walking.

Some people have whirlwind romances. Me? I have a whirlwind friendship. And I'm okay with that, as long as the whirlwind never ends.

Regardless of me sorting things out with Edward—sort of—I just have to call dad the moment I get home. Because as much as I understand Edward's argument of not wanting to lead me on unintentionally, my dad not wanting us involved makes no sense whatsoever.

So the moment I get home and sit on the parlor couch, I call him. It's impulsive and it could wait, but I'm determined to get answers. And I don't think I'm actually expecting him to pick up. With his schedule? Highly unlikely.

So I'm surprised when he does pick up the phone.

"Bella?"

"So, dad."

"Is anything wrong? Why are you calling my cell phone?"

"I just thought you'd want to know. I'm pregnant."

Silence.

"Edward and I have been having tons and tons of sex since we just couldn't keep our hands off each other, you know? And since we're both so intelligent and reasonable, we thought, hell, let's have a baby at seventeen."

Edward casts me a look so alarming his face is starting to turn blue.

"Bella, you'd better be kidding."

"Nope. Baby on the way. Due on the fifteenth of August."

"Put Edward on the phone," he rasps. "_Immediately_."

"You know, I don't think so," I reply. "Dad, what on Earth gave you the idea that going behind my back about something so simple is okay? Just when I thought you're actually starting to see that I'm almost an adult, you pull shit like this. Would it really have hurt you to simply tell me you don't think getting involved with Edward would be sensible and give me your reasons? But no. You tell _Carlisle_ to tell _Edward_ that it's not advisable or whatever. Why?"

He exhales, it's slow and loud. "Wait—so you're not really pregnant?"

"Dad," I sigh. "I'm so far beyond disappointed in you it's not even funny. That shit hurts."

"So you're not? You're not pregnant?"

"Jesus, _dad_. No. I don't know how to break this to you, but Edward and I are _friends_. There is literally nothing going on between us other than him trying to annoy me by not paying attention to the film we're watching and me trying to annoy him by explaining every director's filmography. So why? Why would you not tell me? It's so simple. I don't understand."

"Bella, can we have this discussion in four hours on Skype?"

"Depends," I reply. "Will you try to wriggle out of giving me actual answers?"

I hear a scratchy female voice in the background.

"I promise I won't," he says. "I have to go."

"Alright." I sigh. "See you in a bit."

For over five seconds, I hear him breathe on the other end.

"I love you, Bella."

Am I angry? I don't know. Confused and hurt, yes. Angry? I can't see the reasoning behind his actions, so I don't know where to aim my anger.

After disconnecting the call, I sit on the D-shaped table and pull my legs on it. Ping Pong is attempting and failing to jump in my lap, so I pull him on my lap and pet him. Edward seems to think I'm like him—holding everything in until I explode—so he leaves me alone. In the evening, I lay on this plush parlor carpet opposite Edward, who's decided to return to his usual spot by the wall as he (I'm guessing) writes on his laptop. Ping Pong is trying to either lick my screen or dance on my keyboard, so I hug him by my side until he calms down.

My dad has the stupidest argument for keeping this from me—our conversation sounds something like this:

"I was just trying to protect you."

(Yes, he actually says that.)

"From what? From letting me think that you trust me?"

He rests his head on the knee he's lifted, and it's still odd to see him be so casual. "Bella, what do you think would happen if you two tried it out and it didn't work? Where would you go? Do you think they'd let you stay there if you break that poor guy's heart?"

"Right. Because he's obviously _so_ in love with me."

"In love or not, this wouldn't be a good time to date him. Nothing personal against him. Just not the right time."

"Dad, we're not pursuing anything_._ We don't see each other like that, neither do we exist in the same universe. That makes all your worries kind of pointless."

"I disagree."

"With which part?"

"I'll leave that one for myself."

"Okay. But now, imagine this. Imagine that Edward and I really did start to date, and at one point, it would all go incredibly wrong—and despite that, we'd both be adult enough to be courteous about it and I could still live here until you're back. Imagine that."

"But that's hardly realistic, Bella. Teenagers' breakups are over-emotional and dramatic and everyone thinks their life is over."

"Is that how your breakups were when you were a teenager? I'm sorry if they were, but I'm not you, dad."

He sighs, and suddenly, looks like he's wearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I know."

"So what? I'm supposed to be projecting your fears for my entire life? We're different, dad. I don't react like you do. I don't _act_ like you do. At one point, you'll have to accept that even when my decisions aren't the ones you'd make, my mistakes are mine. They're mine to make. Not yours. And I know, hindsight must be twenty-twenty, but please, dad. Just, just trust me, okay? I've earned it. Don't you agree?"

He intertwines his hands on the table, twiddling with his thumbs. That's where he looks as he speaks.

"Imagine this," he starts, sounding old and exhausted as he repeats my words. "Imagine a single father who's known a nine to five life all his life, who loses the love of his life for the second time a mere week prior to the biggest risk he's ever considered, imagine having a son who accuses you of neglecting your daughter when she was in middle school and had troubles I, apparently, never heard of. Imagine having two kids, so incredibly different but equally loved, who are forced to raise themselves for four months just after losing their mother. Imagine having a daughter who sometimes bears so many similarities to the love of your life it's equally heartbreaking and thrilling to even be in the same room with her." He raises his eyes, and there are unshed tears in them, but he immediately lowers his eyes and clears his throat. "Imagine that, Bella."

I rest my forehead on my palm, staring at my keyboard, realizing I was on the verge of crying myself. When I confronted my dad a few hours ago, this is not where I imagined going, and it is obvious I am definitely not as okay about mom passing away as I attempt to show. Neither is dad. I recognize that the tapping at the keyboard has stopped, so my sudden silence must've drawn Edward's attention.

"I'm sorry, dad." I lick my lips and press them together. I don't even know what I'm apologizing for. "I… I'm so sorry."

He nods, shrugging (it's not very convincing.)

"I make mistakes, Bella."

"I know."

"Do you, really? I've made more than you probably tell me."

"So have I. But don't intentionally hold harmless information for yourself just because of your deluded vision of 'protecting' me. I don't need protecting." I attempt a grin. "Haven't you heard? I'm amazing."

He lets out a laugh. "That, you are. But you're still my little girl, and I worry. I'll do everything I can to make sure you're safe and well when I'm gone."

"As long as you actually communicate, alright?"

He sighs, and even though I'm still slightly confused by some matters, I decide not to badger him. He looks so beaten.

"Okay. I promise not to mess up. Intentionally."

I laugh. "There you go."

Thoughtful, he rests his head in his palm, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think he's looking at me with awe. "Have you always been this sassy?"

"You mean rude and disrespectful? Yes. Yes I have."

"No, I mean so full of life, Bella. Not rude… unless you want to be. I think you know the lines exceptionally well, you just choose to ignore them."

"Well, isn't that my psycho-analysis wrapped in a one-liner," I reply, hiding a smile. I dancing on weak ice, I realize, by bringing mom up again, but I cannot dismiss his words. I press my lips together and sigh. "Dad, what did you mean that I'm so similar to mom it's painful to even look at me? I couldn't be different from her, appearance or character."

"Bella."

"What?"

"You don't even know."

"Know what?"

"Have I never really told you?"

"Dying of suspense here."

"God," he mutters, staring at his fingernails. "Even hearing your voice. Every time I'm expecting her to appear from the other room when I hear you speak. The tone, the liveliness, even the occasional random comments. Spitting image of her."

"We didn't look remotely similar, dad."

"Not the point. You're just so her sometimes. And I don't know where you got the rest of your appearance, but honestly, your smile is spot-on. The kind of smile men would follow to a battle and back if you just sat there on a lonely bench and smiled."

"You're so full of shit right now."

"I'm not."

"You so are."

"Alright, smile."

"What?"

"Smile. Give me a smile." He raises his voice. "Edward, you're there, right?

I motion at my head.

"Headphones, dad. He can't hear you."

"Well. Since I'm too old for you to believe me, ask Edward or your friends or make a Facebook questionnaire about it."

I laugh. I ask him about his first week and the training and my pit bull. Since Emmett seems to have told him that I go running now, dad thought a decent dog would work as a safety net—whatever his reason, it's incredible he remembered that I'd always wanted a dog. And that he found a way for me to get one.

Dad doesn't say it directly—and he doesn't have to—but I just know that this was the only possible choice for him. Joining the US Marshal Service. He seems a little tired, but he's happy. And I'm thrilled he is. He has exactly twenty five minutes to talk to me, and I ask so many questions about his life in Glynco I think I'm starting to annoy him. Or maybe he's flattered that I care, I don't know. Either way, he hurries off after I've satisfied my curiosity, and I notice that Edward is still watching me.

I take off my headphones.

"I solved our problem," I say. "We can go ahead and have mind-blowing sex in your room now."

His mouth falls agape and he blinks like a slow stop-light before the edge of his lip twitches. He smiles.

"No more keeping pointless stuff from me, alright?"

Edward sighs, long and loud, and runs both hands through his hair. He's still smiling. "Alright."

"Two down, one to go. Is it okay if I go and yell at your parents now?"

"Mom doesn't know, and either way, they're not in. Wednesdays and Fridays are their nights out."

"Very cool. I'll yell at your dad tomorrow then."

I quit Skype, close my laptop and sit cross-legged in front of—not next to—Edward. He still closes his Mac, and as much as I understand, it's a sure sign he's writing. Ping Pong goes nuts and starts circling me, and we both watch him do it.

"It's alright, Edward, you can continue. I won't peek, I promise. I'll just sit here and ogle at you like a total creep."

"Is that so?"

"Totally. Firstly, I need to know what you do to have such long eyelashes."

Edward laughs.

"I can ogle right back, you know," he says.

"Ah, I was wondering why I'm beating jocks away with a stick."

"I think Emmett and Jasper have been doing a fine job all by themselves."

"That's horse shit. Do you know something I don't or are you just throwing guesses around?"

"Just throwing it out there."

"Still horse shit."

"I don't know. Maybe Laurent is simply the first one to have made the cut."

"Are you trying to suggest that no-one's asked me out because they need Emmett's permission? That's ridiculous."

"No. I'm just saying it's not impossible."

"Did you speak to my dad? You two are so filled with horse shit today. He's becoming so deluded with distance he told me I act like mom sometimes. He then continued to compliment me on my smile. Next thing I know, you're telling me I'm fit to become a model."

"Well, you've got the stature and the complexion. Now you just need the drive to become one."

His earnest tone makes me laugh.

"Did you just use the word complexion in a sentence? Very poetic." I grin. "So. Actually, I kind of need your help and then you can go back to writing."

"Alright."

"I need to know what people do on dates."

He focuses and refocuses his eyes on my face before clearing his throat. "Pardon?"

"You heard me. What do people do on dates? I have no clue."

Edward presses his lips together. "Why?"

"I have a date with Laurent tomorrow, remember? I'm pretty clueless about this stuff, and I thought since you've probably dated more than I will in my entire life, you'll be perfect to instruct me a little."

The sound coming from his chest is somewhere between a growl and a groan. It's low. He runs a hand through his hair. He is (clearly) taken aback by my request.

"What I mean is, is rounding the second base okay on the first date? Or should I cover the third one, too?"

No sooner have the words left my mouth before Edward's face pales.

"What? No."

"Ah, I should go for a home run right away. I knew it. Wouldn't want to be a prude."

He looks like he's about to faint.

"Bella," he insists, literally face-palming in front of me. He rubs his forehead, and his eyes are earnest. "Bella, no. Uh, please, that's not."

He doesn't finish his sentence, but when I'm dying of laughter on the inside, Edward looks like he's in physical pain. When he's trying to find a way to talk about the birds and the bees, I cannot hold it in any longer. I drop on the floor and burst out laughing. Ping Pong thinks I'm seriously badass and starts climbing on my back, and I let him lick my face and laugh like there's no tomorrow.

When I come up for air, Edward is staring at me.

"You should've seen your face!"

"That wasn't funny, Bella."

"It so was."

"I almost had a heart attack."

"I saw."

"Never do that again."

"Edward, there's something you need to know about me that will shock the bejesus out of you. You ready? I _live_ to bullshit people. It is my only purpose in life. It's who I am. So I promise nothing."

The edge of his mouth is starting to twitch and his eyes are amused, so I'm positive he's not really mad.

"Come on, Edward. Do I really look so naïve? I must look even more naïve than I am and that's an accomplishment since I'm pretty naïve to begin with."

"Just warn me the next time you pull an Oscar-worthy performance out of your sleeve."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Edward. Keep going. I'm all ears."

He laughs. I've cracked him.

"Okay, so, point number one, try to keep my clothes on. It'll be tough, but I'll handle it. Maybe a little petting over the clothes then. Anything else?"

His face sobers and he keeps rubbing his forehead. "Not funny, Bella."

"So I should play hard to get? Maybe pretend to be unavailable for the second date and then jump into bed with him on the third one. Does that work?"

"Bella," he warns.

"Sorry. You're just irresistible, you know?"

He tilts his head on the side, probably wondering if I mean my words or not.

"Nah. Just kidding. Ugliest man I've ever seen."

He huffs a laugh. I lay on my stomach, holding my face in my palms.

"Okay, stop distracting me. So, rule number one, clothes stay on. Anything else I need to know?"

This time, I honestly expect an answer, so I hold my hands up in surrender and snicker when Ping Pong licks my cheek. Edward just looks at me for a moment. He straightens his shoulders, rubbing the scruff on his face he probably doesn't realize is there. Does he ever shave? Or is it like a special shaving level that gives his scruff a certain length? Or maybe it's an accident and he's never even thought of it.

"Be yourself, I guess." He shrugs, now staring at the dog. "If he's got his eyes and ears in the right place, he'll be crazy about you in no time. So just… be yourself."

"I was going to pretend to be Emmett, but now that you've reminded me, I guess it does kind of make sense to show up as me."

He chuckles, but there's an emotion underneath that I can't quite place. It's subtle. It's the odd reaction as I turn all his sweet and earnest words into a joke, it's the way he doesn't seem _completely_ at ease with talking about this with me, it's the occasional furtive glance my way. Like he's having a hard time figuring me out. Or maybe it's just all in my head, and he's just not yet used to the total package of Isabella Swan. Sometimes I'm just a pain in the ass, let me tell you.

"Alright, thanks." I lean down to kiss his cheek, trying and failing to be just as casual about this as he is, because his cheek is a little rough and I think he's wearing cologne, and it's terribly good. I exaggerate my sniff. Edward frowns when I pull back.

"You are totally giving me your cologne for my birthday. No person should be allowed to smell this good."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not wearing any."

"Lucky bastard. I'm officially stealing your clothes then. Sorry if you need to be butt naked all the time."

Well, no. I'm not sorry at all.

I stop sniffing him and jump on the couch. "So, any film preference?"

Even before he does it, I just know he's about to pull out his Mac and start writing. He does. I choose _L'aile ou la cuisse_ (1976), or _The Wing and the Thigh_, a French comedy about the art of cooking. The choice is not completely selfless because I semi-hope that I hear Edward speak French again. Hey, at least I can admit it to myself.

About fifteen minutes in, I'm aware that Edward has stopped writing and is observing me. I offer him a smile. He returns it. A few minutes later, Edward closes his laptop. I've understood that he doesn't care much about movies (he's just nice enough not to tell me he doesn't give a shit), so I raise my eyebrows when he sits next to me. A casual hand lands behind me on the couch.

He sits like a confident man, leaning back and watching the screen but not really seeing it. He couldn't look more disinterested in the movie if he tried.

I snuggle up beside him because I know he's so totally cool about us touching like this, and his arm wraps around my shoulder.

"Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"This is nice."

He smiles, kisses my forehead, and I hear the words he doesn't say. This casualness is not forever. This might be for the last time, for the memory of it. Even if it's nothing romantic or sexual, it can't continue if I go out with Laurent and if it lasts. Maybe, just maybe, Edward knows it too, and that's why he decided to join me. Either way, I'm snuggled beside him and I cherish the moment more than ever.

: :

Ping Pong is, let me tell you, a heck of a dog to take care of.

And before you judge me for the name, it was semi-accidental. First, I wanted to name him Walter. Like a proper name. I thought of Edward Norton's Dr. Walter Fane from _The Painted Veil_, a subtle and underrated role. And surprisingly, a sexy one. If you've never thought of Edward Norton as a sexy man, this film will convince you otherwise.

For short, I thought I'd call my pit bull Wally, or Wall-E.

Esme and Edward's dad are extremely happy that I love their gift, just like I'm elated that they would actually let me have a dog in their house. Esme doesn't really like the fact that he's a pit bull (she wanted to get me a more feminine dog), but Emmett told Edward I like my dogs like I like my cookies, no-nonsense. He, Edward and dad discussed it, and Emmett's suggestion won. So Edward went ahead and got me a rescue dog. Ping Pong a pretty shade of brown, half a year old and quite well-behaved. He's actually not a pure breed, but as Louis CK put it, he looks like a mix between a pit bull and, well, a pit bull.

We discussed the name in the living room, and we'd already opted for Walter, but then Angela gave me a call, and after she'd mentioned that she's playing table tennis with Ben, I'd echoed 'ping pong,' and honest to god, the dog went nuts. He started circling the room and jumped on everyone, and when anyone in the room said 'ping pong,' my dog ran to them, waggling his little tail and looking all happy and shit.

Ping Pong it is. I kind of like it. Edward thinks I'm crazy, but what else is new?

During the past week, I've learned more about dogs than ever. I know it's important for Ping Pong to socialize at an early age (mostly with other dogs), but I also know pit bulls are frowned upon. If my dog got into a fight with another dog, even if the other dog is completely nuts, society would blame my dog because of his breed. I'll do anything to avoid a situation like that, so it is now a part of my morning routine to train him. After or during my jog and/or weights. When I know I'll run in shady-ish areas, I take Ping Pong with me.

By the time Edward finally rolls around, I'll have been awake for five to six hours. He's really not a morning person. Like, seriously.

If I weren't talking about a dog, this would sound like a romantic cliché, but honestly, I think having Ping Pong around is something I didn't know I needed. It's freedom and pleasant obligation wrapped in one, and I feel, I don't know, _needed_. There's someone whose survival depends on me. That's a lot to take in.

I'm so worried and careful that I feel like I just had a baby. Every time Ping Pong makes a sound I'm not used to, I'm positive he's about to die. It's a surprise I haven't gone to listen if he's still breathing in the middle of the night. I used to do that when I was a kid. I snuck into my parents' bedroom and listened if they were still breathing.

But I think it's the newness of it. After a few months, I'm sure we'll have a solid routine and I'll love Ping Pong slash Wall-E to death. I already do. He's good-natured and bat-shit crazy. Hey, at least we have one thing in common.

Yes, that's right. We're both agnostic.

He needs a strict diet and a strict workout regimen. Just like me.

My point is, he's lovely, and I love Edward to death for the idea and the implementation.

On Thursday, I realized that owning a single dress doesn't exactly work in my favor in terms of going out with Laurent. And while I didn't show it, I was completely serious in my concern about dates. I don't even know why people call it dinner. Basically, we're going out to eat and talk. Why not just say that?

I'm surprised to wake up with a twisted knot in my stomach, so maybe I'm unconsciously nervous. It's a huge step, no doubt. There's a guy in this world who's interested in me. Do you know how flattering that is? No-one's ever been interested. Ever.

When I've gone to the gym in the wee hours of the morning (it's one of my gym days) and exhausted Ping Pong, I arrive home dying of thirst only to witness the sweetest thing in the kitchen. Edward has woken up (uncharacteristically early), and just when I enter, he wraps his arms around Esme's shoulders and rests his head on top of hers, giving it a kiss. With her back to her son, Esme smiles and mumbles something about coffee.

Seriously. I'm going to have such high standards after having seen how sweet a guy could be. Maybe I'll train my dad to hug me every morning or something.

It's such a sweet moment between a boy and his mom that I start to back out of kitchen.

Only to back into Edward's dad.

"You alright?"

I motion at the kitchen. "I didn't want to, you know, interrupt."

"It's fine," Edward's dad says, smiling and motioning for me to reenter the kitchen. I do.

"Morning," he says.

Esme and Edward turn and grin. Edward isn't remotely embarrassed about showing how much he cares about his mom. Swoon. You know, I think I'm going to marry this guy if Laurent doesn't work out. Edward is really nice, like super nice, so maybe I'll trick him into thinking it would be a good idea or something.

Right.

I give Ping Pong some dog food. It's called Taste of the Wild. Edward already went to the vet with Ping Pong, and it's something the vet recommended, so we should be good.

I pour myself a glass of water, drown it, and pour another one. Edward is semi-dozing and very adorable as he drinks a cup of coffee half-asleep, and Edward's dad starts to read _The Seattle Times_ while Esme cuts some fruit.

It's weird. I've been here a week, and not once have we all eaten breakfast together. I'm usually either the first one up, or I head off to jog just when Edward's dad appears in the kitchen. Edward's breakfast is usually my lunch, and by that time, both his parents have gone to work.

I'm sticky and sweaty as I take off my buff and sit for a moment.

"So… I'm pregnant. It's Edward's."

Edward's eyes bug out of his head as he chokes. His coughing gets so bad he actually goes to spit his drink in the sink. Meanwhile, Esme has turned to stare at me and Edward's dad silently sets aside the newspaper.

"So, yeah, thought you should know."

In deathly silence, I drink my glass of juice and scratch Ping Pong's neck.

"Pardon?" Edward's dad asks, his manner of speech creepily similar to Edward's, while Esme stares at me in shock. It's like the idea of me and Edward together has occurred to her as often as having tea with a blow-drier on top of Kilimanjaro.

Still slightly red-faced, Edward shakes his head. "She's just messing with you."

"Is she?"

Edward's dad eyes him, and suddenly I feel like I'm in on information that I shouldn't know or understand, but I do, and from the sheer shock on Esme's face, you can tell she's probably oblivious to his, er, sexual history. Honestly, if Edward were my son, I'd want to be oblivious, too.

I sigh. "I'm not pregnant. I've heard you'd have to actually have sex for that to happen."

Edward's dad lets out a breath.

"But I spoke to my dad yesterday. And I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I am grateful. I am. I've never grown up with a family who shows affection like you do, so living with you is like a learning curve. I couldn't have asked for a more caring family to stay with. But also, I'd really much rather you told me if there's something I should know or do or if something is unacceptable. I think it would be fair. I'm really not one for subtle hints at all, especially when it's something as unlikely and pointless as this."

Esme looks touched but really, really confused. She walks to her husband and puts her hands on his shoulders.

"Honey, what's going on?"

I look at him. "Does that sound fair? I talk more nonsense than is worth believing, but however I joke, the likelihood of me and your son is further hindered by the fact that we're not actually interested in pursuing anything. Right, Edward?"

Edward hums. Edward's dad raises his eyes and stares holes into Edward's skull, but Edward is eyeing the content of his coffee cup like his life depended on it. Esme just looks utterly confused.

I clear my throat. "So yes. And Esme, I'm not really… my mom wasn't… I have a bit of a problem with finding clothes for my date tonight, so I was wondering if I could borrow a skirt or something. Just for tonight. It's okay if you don't want to. It's fine either way."

Her whole face lights up, and it might be a stretch of my imagination, but I can absolutely imagine her wanting to have a daughter. I wish I were someone who cared about clothes and make-up.

"Of course, sweetie. I have a bunch of them that I haven't worn for years. I'll show you where they are. Do you need any help with make-up?"

I watch Edward's silent stare-down with his dad.

"I would if I owned any."

After my shower, Edward's dad comes to talk to me to clear the air about why they kept this from me. He has this intimidating way about him sometimes. But we're fine. I'm still slightly confused about their motives, but he says it's something to do with Edward, and I already had a talk with him. Confusing shit.

At around five thirty (when Edward comes home from football practice with his hair all delicious and disheveled and damp), I take a few clothing choices (from the vacant room where Esme's clothes are) to try on for my date. Esme is small and fragile, so that's good, but she must be about nine inches shorter than me, so that's a bit of a problem. But I also find a hilarious Halloween costume, and seriously, I want to wear it. Albeit a bit begrudgingly (I can't imagine any guy enjoying a fashion show), Edward has agreed to give my outfit his approval, so I put on my costume.

"It's very short and sexy, Edward! Try to contain your boner, okay?"

With teeny-tiny steps, I round the corner, and it takes a fraction of a second for Edward to understand that I am wearing a gigantic pink teapot suit. I swirl and curtsy while Edward is struggling not to die of laughter.

"So… what do you think? Laurent won't be able to keep his hands off of me, eh?"

"Indeed," he answers, grinning as he gives me a thumbs up. "Perfect. Yes. Go with that."

"Wait, you have to see my other choices first."

"How many do you have?"

"Three," I answer, struggling with walking in this ridiculously hot costume. So I opt for jumping into my room instead.

"What is up with you and hopping?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

I sneak out of the hot teapot costume and into a little classy-looking black dress (it has a few loose strands), and while it's an absolutely gorgeous dress, it's a tad too short. It ends just above mid-thigh, almost like a long form-fitting blouse. It shows my legs, and while I'm still on the scrawny side, I do have the faint trail of muscle now which I'm proud of.

But pretending to be a girl is kind of fun, you know? I would've never thought I'd find so much enjoyment in trying clothes on. But it's not half bad. It's fun. I must thank Laurent for this.

But the little black dress that I actually like? Edward is horrified when he looks up from his Mac. His mouth is agape and he's shaking his head.

"Fuck, no," is what comes out of his mouth.

"Gee, thanks for not embellishing your disgust or anything. Girl with a fragile ego here, remember? Adios."

He curses and calls after me when I go to try on my next choice, but it's fine. It really is. Maybe it's a bit too soon for me to think I could pull off something lovely. I'm okay with that, and I'm okay with Edward not thinking I suddenly look pretty or some shit. Hey, at least he's honest. First reaction is always honest.

My third outfit is a red skirt that I can wear with a black-and-white blouse of mine, and if Edward hates that one, too, then I give up. I'll just crawl under my bed and never show my face again.

You know, I've noticed that ever since meeting Alice, I'm back to the old me. It's like the last two months didn't exist. Maybe I should pay Edward so that he would lie to me. Or buy myself some friends who'd lie to me on a daily basis.

On that thought, I find myself five bucks from my purse, and hold it out to Edward the moment I've rounded the corner. He's no longer sitting on the floor with his laptop. Instead, he's on the couch, running a hand through his hair and violently tearing at them.

"Bella, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine." I send him a smile as I hold out my five dollars. "So, I was thinking. I kind of need some reassurance, and I know it's not much, but I'll give you a fiver if you tell me a nice white lie."

His face goes absolutely pale, and if I thought he looked horrified before, he looks comically so now.

"Are you kidding?"

"But look at this lonely fiver, Edward. I promise it'll be easy to lie if you don't look at me. You can look at the wall and say something lukewarm. Not even sexy or gorgeous or whatnot, just, like… 'you look nice' or 'not half-bad.'"

His eyes search mine, and he still looks pale, but the intensity is scary.

"What happened?"

"An ugly girl wants to hear a lie, Edward, that's what happened," I answer. "So how about it?"

"No, I mean—you were doing fine before, and this week, this… this fucking self-deprecation comes back."

I shrug. "I was knocked off my high horse and my illusions and now I'm back to realism." I continue to hold my fiver. "So how about it? Just a small lie. Nothing big. Just enough for me to feign confidence."

He says nothing. Instead, I'm enveloped into the tightest hug imaginable. I can feel his warmth under my skin, his breath on my neck and his heartbeat under my cheek. It's such a personal hug it's dancing in the borders of friendship and beyond. I can't switch off the part of me that feels more, even if he's so super casual about proximity.

I'm not. I choose carefully who I let close to me.

"What was that for?

He holds on to my shoulders after our hug.

"You're beautiful," he insists, locking eyes with mine. His voice is low and persistent.

"Oscar-worthy performance? Right back at you, Edward. Thank you." I hand him my fiver, kiss his cheek, and before he's able to react, I grin and run to my room to tidy up a bit and carry the rest of Esme's clothes and costume upstairs.

"I don't want your money, Bella!" Edward yells. His voice is coming closer.

"Not now! I'm naked!"

It's not until late at night that I see that fiver again.

Esme is incredibly excited about my date—even more so than I am. I think it's the prospect of helping me prepare for it that excites her, but after I refuse creams and powders and whatnot, she tones it down a little. I'm not backing out of what I said earlier. If I'm about to change myself, it will not be for a man. That includes dates. The only thing I agree on wearing is this cherry-red lipstick, and that's only because we have so much fun picking a color. I don't use mascara, nothing else. Just that lipstick.

Eh. Laurent has known me for a half a year. By now, he must know I'm a bit weird.

When it's six twenty five, I rush downstairs to grab my purse, and with my luck, that is just the time the doorbell rings. By the time I'm back on the first floor, I'm facing the funniest scene in the foyer with Edward leaning on the corridor wall, arms crossed, staring bullets at Laurent, who is being cross-examined by Edward's dad. Funny shit. I put on my coat and clear my throat. Eyes fall on me.

"Bella, what time is your dad's curfew?" Edward's dad asks.

"Never had one."

"You do now. I want her back at eleven sharp."

Laurent lets out a nervous laugh. "Yes, sir."

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees I'm ready and holds out a single rose. It's sweet. I've never been given flowers before (other than for my birthday).

He's clad in dark jeans, a beige coat and a very white hat that emphasizes his darkness.

He smiles. "You look beautiful."

"Damn, you're good. I didn't even pay for you to say that. I think I like this dating business."

He laughs. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, my knight in shining armor, but, er, do you mind if I go and put the flower in a vase?" But Esme is already there, taking it from me and ushering me out the door. However, before I get to actually join Laurent, Edward taps on my shoulder, and he leans close to me. His voice is low, quick and insisting.

"If he does anything at all you're not comfortable with, send me a message or call, anything, and I'll be there. Alright?"

I turn to look at Laurent.

"Are you an axe-murderer?"

He laughs. "Forgot my axe today, though."

"See, Edward?" I say. "No reason to worry. He forgot his axe today."

Finally, _finally_, we're out the door, in the cold and fresh air, heading off to the cinema in Laurent's grandpa's Honda. It's red, it's old, and it has character.

"So, I've been preparing to face Chief Swan all day, and then I get here, thought you'd moved, and instead of your dad, Cullen is the one looking like he wants me buried alive. So, why am I picking you up from their place?"

"Ah, my dad's in Georgia. He quit the chief business. He's now on his way of becoming a marshal."

"Cool. So the Cullens are like old friends or something?"

"If this is a roundabout way of asking me about my relationship with Edward, I can assure you we have not been nor do we strive to be together."

He glances at me with a closed-mouth smile and nods, and I just know this is what he wanted to know. You know, Laurent has always struck me as an all-around positive guy. Even when he asked me out and doubted I'd agree, he kept smiling and stuff, just like now. But underneath the smiley guy, I can tell he's a bit nervous. I don't know why. I mean, I'd like to think I'm a pretty easy-going girl, but maybe he genuinely likes me. Does that even happen? I really doubt that's the case. Never mind.

"I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

He laughs, but it's still nervous. "I'm allergic."

"To peanuts?"

"Yes."

"Raisins?"

"Love them."

"Good. At least we have one thing in common. If we run out of things to talk about, we should now officially opt for talking about raisins."

He lets out a laugh. "You're different."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't be." Nervous laugh. "I think that's why I've liked you for so long."

This time, I'm the one with the nervous laugh. It's surreal. I'm serious. It's one of the most surreal things I've experienced. No guy has ever shown interest in me, much less acted on it. This is something the romantic books and movies don't tell you: they don't tell you how genuinely flattering—in the best possible way—it is to be the object of someone's affection. I don't mean that he's supposed to compliment me left and right, no. Not that. I mean, I can actually tell he's interested but either shy about it or not sure of my reciprocity. His nerves are flattering in the sweetest possible way. I'm not sure I've ever seen him nervous.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Again, that uncertain laugh. "I tried. I actually hinted pretty heavily. Angela knew. Your brother knew."

"Hinted? Okay, I should probably tell you right away—throwing hints at me is about as effective as solving an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. Especially when I don't know that I'm supposed to be paying attention."

"Baz Luhrmann, nice."

I grin. "Did you join Drama just because of me?"

He throws me a glance, very brief and really nervous, and looks ahead again. If you could actually tell when black people blush, this would be his moment. "I don't think it'll work in my favor if you know my cards right away."

"I know nothing about dating rules, Laurent," I admit, and immediately slap my forehead. "Ah, shit, I'm not supposed to tell you this, am I? Shit. Well, since I'm already on it, I think you should know that this is my first date. Like, ever. Sorry."

He simply chuckles. "I knew."

"Emmett?"

He nods.

"Does it bother you?"

"No. I think you're one of those people who has that Jennifer Lawrence charm. Like, if you didn't know her, she'd pass you on the street and you'd think she's about average, and then you see just a few interviews, and immediately, you're in love."

"I'm flattered, but please don't tell me you just called J-Law average. She is totally stunning."

"So are you," he says, giving me a look and a warm-hearted smile. I am sorry, but when someone puts their moves on you like that, you can't not blush, especially when you're a Swan.

"You're slick."

He grins. "Is it working?"

"Yes."

He grins. "In that case, you're a mix between Kate Micucci and Jennifer Lawrence."

"Keep going. One more compliment, and we're having sex tonight."

He erupts into laughter—you see, unlike Edward, he's known me for a year now, and I literally throw those comments left and right all the time. Even at school.

"So what made you finally ask me out?"

"My mother."

"Okay."

"No, I mean, we're Kenyan. She used to be a runner. Olympic silver, actually. I noticed you're getting into running, and I have all this useless knowledge about running, so I thought at least there's one topic for conversation."

"That, and raisins." I smile. "And that's crazy awesome. I'd love to meet her."

Mental facepalm. That? That is the wrong thing to say. I think I just invited myself over before we've even survived one date. That is not how things are supposed to work, I'm sure.

"Never mind. Word vomit."

He smiles. "I'm sure she'll love you."

Seriously, he's like perpetually happy or something. Maybe it's a syndrome.

We go to the SIFF Cinema, and it's one of those nights when they play oldish movies, so we see _Marathon Man_ (1976). It's really good. At one point, I can see Laurent's hand just lying between us, and I know it's an open-ended invitation. Instead of overanalyzing, I intertwine my fingers with his, and looking at him, all I see is teeth. It's like I'm sitting beside white teeth randomly hovering next to my face.

Laurent is, honestly, a genuinely nice guy. Once he's over his nerves, he's quite opinionated and I love arguing with him. He also doesn't let anything get to him. (The girl sitting on his other side accidentally pours soda on his pants, and Laurent is cool as a cucumber. He laughs it off.) We have dinner in a semi-fancy restaurant (one that looks like you have to make a reservation in advance), and we eat chicken and have fun. Laurent speaks _film_, which is a revelation—yay! He actually likes films—and finding a topic to speak about doesn't seem to be a problem.

I like him. I do. I could actually grow to like him as more than a friend, I recognize that. The sad thing is, I should understand all of this without having to consciously think about it. There are snippets of moments when my mind compares him to Edward before I'm able to process it, but I don't let my thought linger.

By the time we leave the restaurant, happy and well-fed, it's ten fifty. It'll take a half an hour to get home, but I assure Laurent it's fine. I mean, what's Edward's dad going to do, anyway? I still feel like there's more to that not-letting-me-know-it's-not-okay-to-get-involved- with-Edward story than they let on, and that confuses me. Not to say I'm breaking the rules to spite him, no. But I can't say breaking those rules don't give me a sense of independence, sort of like letting Edward's dad know he has no power here.

So now he's Gandalf the White to my Théoden. Great.

Back in front of Edward's house, Laurent insists on accompanying me to the porch regardless of the fact that we broke my curfew by twenty minutes. But I stop him before we get there. He's a bit shy, standing with his hands in his pockets as he gives me that nervous smile. But before he can say anything, I step in front of him—I don't have to raise myself on my tiptoes, we're the same height—and I kiss him. He's taken aback. A second later, he's holding my waist and returning my kiss.

There's no fireworks or sparks or electricity or any of that. But it's not unpleasant. It's different. It's my first "real" kiss, not a peck or a kiss out of obligation. Laurent, he's a big guy, and even without a height difference, I still feel tiny and special in his arms. He smiles and hovers when we pull back, and I mirror his smile. I can tell the kiss did more to him than to me, but I'm okay with that. Maybe sometimes you're not in the same place immediately, maybe I need time to get where he is.

But I'm flattered he seems to see something in me.

"You're very pretty." He smiles, not letting go of my hand.

"Keep complimenting me, and you might get a second date."

He laughs, it's a bit nervous. "Can I call you?"

"Sure. You have my number."

He pecks my lips, and I watch him drive away in that red Honda. My first date. I feel a bit giddy. All in all, it was a good date, he's a super positive guy. And he thinks funny girls are underrated. That's nice.

"You're late."

"Fuck. Thanks for the heart attack, Edward."

He's in his grey pea coat, holding his iPhone and leaning on the railing. He crosses his arms.

"Why didn't you pick up the phone? Do you have any idea how worried we were?!"

I don't think I've ever seen him so upset. It's like I did something to deliberately hurt him, but all I did was arrive home a bit later. He's taking my dad's request way too seriously.

"I know you're, like, four years older than me, but let me be a teenager, Edward. Because I am. And I'm supposed to be breaking rules. My date was excellent, thank you for caring."

"Shit, just pick up your phone the next time."

"I'm sorry," I answer, taking off my scarf and walking to the front door. "I just got sidetracked by all that sex in the back of Laurent's car. I'll make sure to be texting the next time I'm going down on him."

The hand he's about to run through his hair stops as his eyes widen.

"That—that's what… you were doing?"

Here's the difference between those friends who've known me for years, and Edward: my other friends don't have to process the meaning behind my "dirty" jokes before they get them, Edward does. I'm already inside and taking off my coat with Edward breathing on my neck when he lets out a breath.

"Jesus. You were joking."

"Damn it, Edward, the next time you do _not_ understand that I'm kidding about this, I will get really, really offended."

I haven't even had the chance to take off my coat before a very concerned-looking Esme and Edward's dad overwhelm me with questions—and apparently, they were so concerned they called my dad. Hell. I could've done something way worse, gotten pissed, stolen a car, bought heroine, but no, I'm twenty minutes late and they call my dad. It's the middle of the night in Georgia and he's gotten too little sleep to begin with, and now he gets bothered with trivial shit like this.

It has taken a while, but finally—finally—I understand what Edward meant when he said his parents' concern can be overwhelming. Jesus. They're upset with me being late, but they give me the phone with my dad in the other end probably in the hopes that my dad's scolding will sink in better than theirs.

On goes the coat, out the door I go, and on the swing I sit.

"Hi, dad."

He's quietly laughing in the other end. _Laughing_.

"So… how was your date?"

"It was really nice. I think I like Laurent."

"Carlisle and Esme seem to think you were on your way towards getting killed or worse." I can almost hear the smile in his (tired) voice. "So, is Laurent the bulky black guy Emmett used to hang out with in middle school? The one who liked to save the ants from drowning?"

"Yes."

"He seemed nice. I approve," he says, yawning. "Carlisle and Esme now think that I am a bad parent, but I've told them your curfew is one AM. I don't think they understood me when I told them you're more likely to break the rules the more rules they give you to break. Regardless, from now on, I'd much rather you obeyed by theirs."

"Dad."

"I know. I know, but it's their house, their rules. They're just concerned."

I sigh. "I know."

"But how in the world they thought a giant black guy would get mugged or let you get kidnapped I do not understand."

He laughs at his own joke, but he sounds way tired.

"Go to sleep, dad. Thanks for being you."

"I wasn't concerned because I don't care, Bella, but because I do, and I know you."

"No need to explain. You have your way of raising us and they have theirs, and that's the way it is."

"Couldn't have put it better myself. I have a five AM wake-up call today. Sweet dreams, Bella."

"Love you, dad."

So much for scolding me because I was twenty minutes late. I knew he wouldn't, though. It's just like he said, he's not concerned because he doesn't care, but because he's raised us not to be scared of life. He knows firsthand that Seattle has one of the highest crime rates in the States. So do I. That doesn't mean he wants me to stop living.

Well, that, and the fact that I was with a very intimidating-looking football player.

I step into the house and hand the phone over to Esme. "I'm sorry I was late. It won't happen again."

"I want you to understand that we were only concerned," she says. "We just want you to be safe."

"I know. I'm sorry."

I can eat the humble pie and mean it, but I have lived my entire life by nobody else's rules but mine. It will be very difficult, if not impossible, to play by someone else's rules. I'm not a rebel for the sake of being a rebel, but the moment they make me feel caged, I will find a way to secretly break their rules. If Emmett and I ever did have something in common, I think this is it. And my dad has recognized it.

It's difficult to explain without looking like I don't respect Edward's parents. I do. I really, really do. But my world view doesn't match theirs. I don't think I could explain the freedom I need in my life even if we spent an entire day discussing it.

I go downstairs and change into my pajamas, and when I'm done, Ping Pong arrives out of nowhere and waggles his little tail. I sit on the parlor carpet, letting him lick my face. I laugh. He seems to be the only creature happy about my successful date with Laurent.

"Do you want to know how my date went, Ping Pong?" I ask him. "Laurent thinks I'm like Kate Micucci and that I'm funny. Do you know how sweet that is? I think I'm in love." He keeps looking at me, all happy, and I just feel like I want to hug him. So I do. "You're a great listener, Ping Pong. Maybe you should look into becoming a therapist, what do you think?" He growls a bit and yawns.

A throat clears. "Shower's free," Edward says, and I raise my eyes to look at him, his damp hair and snug T-shirt. He's frowning as he runs a hand through his hair, looking like I've punched him in the gut. He avoids my eyes.

"Oh, come on, Edward. I was just twenty minutes late and you're all behaving like I went ahead and got myself raped and killed or something."

Still avoiding my eyes, Edward takes his Mac and doesn't even sit at his usual spot on the floor by the wall, he just goes to his room and shuts the door with a quiet click.

Seriously, there is something wrong with this dude.

Before I go to sleep, I notice a paper flower on my desk. It's made of the fiver I gave Edward and it's lying on a piece of paper with a single sentence on it.

_you're beautiful._

Edward you sweet, _sweet_ man.

What I thought was excitement and nerves about the date, turns out to be either food poisoning or a stomach bug. Just a few hours after falling asleep, I wake up feeling sicker than I remember myself being, and I've barely dragged myself to the bathroom before I'm vomiting my guts out. I sit there, by the toilet, for a good fifteen minutes before another wave of nausea hits me. It continues like this before Edward hears my retching. The moment he sees me, he offers me a glass of water and sits right next to me. He caresses my hair. I'm beat. I feel limp and tired and sick. Maybe I'm dead.

"Did he give you alcohol?"

"No."

"What did you have?"

"Chicken. Same as Laurent."

"I'll check if he's got what you have," he says, gently stroking my shoulder. He's now able to look me in the eye again. The sheer concern in his makes me feel all warm and fussy inside—or it would, if I didn't feel like I might vomit any moment. "Will you be okay for a second? Where's your phone?"

"My desk."

"I'll be right back, alright?"

I let out an obscure hum before I continue to retch. I didn't even eat as much as I'm vomiting.

"He's fine," Edward says, crouching next to me. "I'll go ask dad what to do, alright?"

"No," I mutter. "I'll be fine. It's probably just a stomach bug. Go back to sleep."

"I wasn't asleep. Can I do anything for you?"

"Let me die."

He chuckles, but he still doesn't leave me be. I don't know how he thinks he can help.

"Just so you know, I would totally leave the bathroom if you wanted to vomit your guts out. Other people's puking makes me puke."

"I'm used to it."

"Snarky comment, Edward, snark snark. I'm too tired."

He laughs, and sure enough, he doesn't leave the bathroom for the next few hours until there's nothing left for me to puke. Not even my zest for life. When I've stared at the wall for a half an hour without admiring the insides of this toilet, I try to drink the water Edward offers, and I succeed.

"Go to sleep, Edward. I'm getting better."

"Do you need me to carry you?"

"I'll be fine. Just, uh, see that I actually make it." With Edward looking like he's ready to scoop me up in his arms any second, I lean on the wall and slowly crawl to my room. Well, not really. But my bed is nice. Really, really nice. I missed my bed. I realize I'd already dozed off when I feel Edward pull the covers on me. He's gone for a second and when he gets back, he sits on the other side of my bed with his laptop. He's above the covers.

I think I ask, "Whatcha doing?"

"Looking after you. How do you feel?"

"Empty," I reply, snuggling closer to the pillows. "Really, really empty."

After he's kissed my forehead, I think I hear a whispered, "Me, too." The sound of Edward's keyboard lulls me to sleep. It's soft, it's infrequent, and it assures me of his presence. It's what I need.

: :

Friday night, following my request, Edward has picked Rosalie up from the city to spend New Year's Eve with us in Forks. Edward needs to get a few things from the house, but I'm already outside, and Rosalie takes her time getting out of Edward's (much detested) car.

I observe her as I approach. She's got straight ginger hair, facial features of a Barbie doll and a body that is somewhere between voluptuous and overweight. But it's an hourglass figure, which makes having a larger frame look attractive. She is, for all intents and purposes, someone you'd call a 'big' girl. She does not look unattractive, oh no. Neither am I judging. Not at all. I'm just surprised.

Our eyes lock, and she immediately recognizes me. Her lips stretch into a hesitant smile, and it is scary how similar her smile is to her brother's. Even without a DNA test, I'm pretty sure there's some shared heritage there.

Her gait is somewhat hesitant and slow. Not once does she turn her head. I notice she's really careful with her head.

"Hi," she says, almost meekly even though the smile does not leave her lips. "Isabella, right?"

"Rosalie." I nod and smile. "Awesome to finally see you in person. Is it okay if I hug you?"

"I, you—just like Edward. Just please be careful with my head."

I envelop her into an awkward but much appreciated hug, and I'm gentle. You'd be proud.

"Thanks for inviting me to, you know. I just really, it means a lot."

"No problem at all."

She's not as shy as I expected, just sort of… timid. I don't know if I expected her to have trouble speaking or something. She doesn't. She's just quiet and deliberate and very, very careful with her head.

She observes the direction of my eyes. "Were you expecting long blonde hair?" She grabs onto the top of her perfect hair and pulls upward.

It's a wig.

There's white bandage all around her head. Why did I not think about this? Obviously, she's bald. It's been, what, three weeks since her operation? Four?

I smile. "Well, at least you get to change the color of your hair every day without worrying one bit about the negative effects of bleaching."

She laughs as if I'd said something entirely too funny, and I swear it's not the slightest bit fake.

"Hadn't thought of it that way, but yes, true."

Edward arrives with two back bags, and I have the feeling he saw us hug and chat, and deliberately postponed joining us. There's this good-natured smile he offers when he throws the bags in the back. Rosalie joins me in the backseat. Each and every one of her movements is like in slow motion, and I cannot help but wonder how much pain she has to be in. What a brave girl.

I want to ask about what happened to her, who she's living with and where, why she escaped, does she have any money, if not, does she need some… but I don't. Not just yet.

"So, your place, shopping or Emmett and Jasper?" Edward asks.

"Emmett and Jasper, my place, and shopping. In that order," I answer.

"Yes, ma'am." He salutes to the mirror. Rosalie returns his smile, and he takes off. "So, Bella. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Ate some rice, drank some yoghurt. Fit as a fiddle."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I wouldn't miss my Emmett tradition for the world."

"You're sick?" Rosalie asks, and it's quiet and concerned. It sounds a bit naïve, but it's adorable.

"Not really. Next time, please remind me to reconsider kissing the guy who had stomach flu the previous week."

The moment she turns to her brother and asks, "You had stomach flu?" I'm flushed from head to toe, and I can see Edward's ears redden.

"Your brother and I are not—we're just friends."

"Oh, I thought, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I assure her, seeing as she's genuinely embarrassed. "Is it okay if I'm curious about what happened to your head?"

Relieved to be changing subjects, she smiles a little. "It's always okay to be curious," she replies. "Craniotomy, I believe that's what it's called. Basically, it has something to do with removing the bone flap of my skull to access the brain."

"Why did you need it?"

"Brain injury."

She might as well have said her step-father hit her, because that is certainly how I interpret it. How much abuse has she survived? She looks fragile, she's prone to embarrassment, she's shy and timid and really, really careful (physically), but she's probably the strongest person in the car. I'm awed by her in the best possible way.

"Is it okay to ask where you live?"

"Right now, there's this lady who's helped a friend of hers who was in a similar, anyway, she's a relative of a friend and she's really, really helpful. We're heading off to New York in three days, actually. She's got a friend who's a neurosurgeon, and if things go according to plans, I'll be under the scalpel before next week is over."

She almost says the words to herself, she's so quiet, but Edward still hears her, and apparently, it's new information. His eyebrows are raised.

"Do you need any money?" he asks, and I nod along.

"I want to help, too," I offer.

"I'm, it's fine. I have some."

Edward keeps shaking his head. "Bella, can you write down her account number?"

I do. I want to help her as well. Heck, I'd give her full ownership over one of those spas if it helped her. I know, money is not always the best or the only way to help, but shit, money does help a lot if you've got no relatives or friends to turn to and you're in about as fragile situation as Rosalie is. She can have all my savings for all I care.

When we're at Jasper's, I jump out and take Emmett's gift out of the trunk. We don't even have to let Jasper know we're here before Emmett and Jasper are heading towards us under several layers of clothes. Just like us.

"Oh, look! It's my sister!" Emmett feigns surprise. I run to him, we share gifts, and he puts his in the foyer. I put mine in the trunk. What can I say? It's a tradition.

"So… You look fine. Edward said you're sick."

"Oh, just the black plague. Vomited my guts out last night."

He takes a step back. "Is it contagious?"

"Highly." I feign coughing while Emmett backs away from me. "You'll die."

"Very funny."

"I know, hardy har har."

Before we've entered the car, Edward gives me a long, meaningful look, and joins us. "Guys, can you not push Rosalie much? She's been through a lot. Alright?"

"Oh-kay," Emmett says, and it's a look so sarcastic and bullshitting (yes, I should know) I can't not make him understand the importance of this.

"Interpreting for you, Emmett: I will cut off your balls if you do anything—anything at all—to make Rosalie feel uncomfortable. Am I understood?"

Always the happy-go-lucky bastard, my brother grins. "Why are you all looking at me? I can be nice!"

I don't think he understands the magnitude of his behavior, so I find no other way to beat this into his skull but to reveal myself a bit.

"Emmett. Spring, three years ago. Michael Newton. Imagine living in a world where somebody would do what he did to me, except it's way worse and lasts for years. You either shut the fuck up when necessary or you're staying here. Got it?"

The speed with which his grin fades would be comical if I hadn't just drawn unnecessary attention to myself from Edward and Jasper. And while Jasper must know something, just nothing specific, Edward looks absolutely and completely horrified. He waits until Jasper and Emmett enter the car, and then holds both of my shoulders in his hands, trying to burn a hole into my skull with his eyes.

"What're you talking about?"

"Not important."

"Please tell me this is one of those times I just fail to understand your sense of humor."

"It's not. But it's neither the time nor the place to speak about this."

He runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

"What?"

"Just, fuck."

"Edward, it's fine."

"It's a fucking disaster, Bella. Two of the most important girls in my life are, apparently, way more fucked up than anyone should ever be."

I ignore the bursting ball of bliss and affection that explodes within me when he calls me one of the two most important girls in his life, and pull him into a hug. Proximity, remember? It's probably the only thing that works for him, and I can feel him rubbing his nose against my neck, pulling me tighter and tighter until I feel the anguish and upset and affection under his skin.

"Will you tell me?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Likewise, you're among two of the most important guys in my life. Of course. Just not today, okay?"

I feel him nod under my scarf, and it tickles my neck.

"Just enjoy tonight, alright? Your sister and cousin are here, so is my brother, and let's just have fun tonight. What do you think?"

The kiss he leaves on my forehead lingers. "Brilliant plan."

Emmett makes me sit in the middle while Rosalie sits in the front, and not until we leave for Forks do I understand just how right Edward was when he said Rosalie is shy. She gives monosyllabic answers to anything Jasper or Emmett ask. We joke in the back, but she's quiet. I can tell there's a wordless conversation going on between the two siblings in the front, so I take it upon myself to act as silly, stupid and funny as possible to draw Emmett's attention to myself. I succeed.

Meanwhile, Edward's words have made me think. The words I said to Emmett about Rosalie suffering for years? It was just a guess. An attempt to make Emmett behave himself. Yes, I said something I thought was likely, but to which extent was I right? Edward probably knew exactly what happened to Rosalie while Emmett knew exactly what happened to me, so now Edward thought what happened to Rosalie happened to me, and Emmett thought vice versa. Eh, confusing.

At around hour to midnight, under Emmett's instructions, Edward turns to a lonely-looking gravel road under the trees, and after fifteen minutes of obscure forest with no hint of civilization, we've made it to an empty field.

"Here?" Edward asks.

Emmett, Jasper and I hum an agreement, and Edward turns off the engine. We carry a giant, mattress-looking carpet to the middle of the field and set it on rows and rows of semi-rotten but flat pieces of timber. Everyone gets a blanket, but I took three for Rosalie because she's had surgery and she's—she's important. It's my turn to lie in the middle, so I instruct Edward and Rosalie to be on my left side and Emmett and Jasper on the other. I want to make Rosalie feel welcome, and as much as I understand, being squished between strange men wouldn't leave her in a comfort zone.

It's a twenty degree slope. Side by side, we lie so that our heads are aligned and upwards, pull blankets on us, and watch the stars. There's the occasional breeze, a grey cloud, a dog's howl in the distance. Other than that, it's serene.

"It's beautiful," Rosalie whispers. Others hum in agreement.

"For how long have you done this?" she asks again, super-quiet.

"Emmett and I? Since I was twelve and he was thirteen. We used to come here by bus, though, and walk the rest of the evening."

"I just joined last year," Jasper adds.

"Yeah, sometimes we'd eat and drink and talk, other times it's just the sound of wind. Sometimes it rains."

"There are two rules, though," my brother mutters, and I'm thankful he's keeping his voice down a little. "First rule, you don't yell or scream when New Year arrives. You're silent for five minutes into the next year. Second rule, you make five wishes for New Year. One of them out loud. The rest you keep for yourself."

"Why five?" Edward asks.

"One for the world, one for your friends and family and three for yourself."

"Why do you get three wishes for yourself?"

"Because change starts from within," I answer.

Edward turns his head and gives me a smile, a smile I return before we both continue to stare at the sky.

"I want to have the fifth edition for DnD," Jasper starts, and laughter follows.

"Very noble, Jasper," Edward says, clearly amused.

"DnD?" Rosalie whispers.

"Dungeons and dragons," Jasper answers. "Most awesome computer game on the planet."

Edward takes a breath. "I want wildlife conservation to flourish."

"Very noble, Edward," Jasper returns, and both chuckle.

"I want Bella's psychologist to help Bella heal," Emmett says, and I give him a long, hard look. Just like the one I feel on the back of my head.

Well, fuck.

"What?" he asks, looking left and right. "I do."

"Thanks, Emmett," I tell him. "Although you could've said it louder. I don't think they heard you in Vancouver."

"I want Bella's psychologist to help Bella!" he shouts before looking at me. "Do you think they heard me now?"

"You bastard."

He laughs. "Is everyone warm?"

Everyone agrees in words or hums.

"I want dad to be happy," I say. Emmett squeezes my wrist for a second.

Nobody pushes Rosalie to say anything. It's okay if she doesn't. But when she does, it makes me (and my wishes) feel minuscule, and I'm sure everyone else feels the same.

"I want to be alive."

There's a collective breath taken, but nobody comments. We watch as grey clouds pass, the stars twinkle, we watch as the fireworks on the horizon start to gain momentum. Nobody says a word.

I wish people will recognize and deal with bullying and domestic abuse. I wish for Edward to be happy, whoever he chooses to be happy with. I wish I'll heal—and that Rosalie will, too. I wish to be free of my sense of self-deprecation. I wish everyone by my side, Rosalie and Edward and Emmett and Jasper, never have a day in their lives when they don't feel loved.

The sounds, colors and vibrancy of fireworks reach a high point, and a particularly large, blue rocket goes off in the distance just before Emmett's wrist watch makes a silent, 'Beep, beep.'

We look at each other, smiling, but just like we agreed, nobody says a word. It's better this way. Shouting about New Year is overrated. Feeling the New Year, setting goals and wishes, is underrated.

Gradually, after five minutes have passed, we start to talk. Not yell. Just talk. We watch as the fireworks fades out until only a few infrequent rockets are left. It feels like a New Year. New choices (and mistakes) to be made, mistakes to be learned from, new goals to be set.

After an hour has passed, we start to pack our stuff. But in the middle of carrying her blankets as well as mine, Rosalie comes up to me, looking shy about something. I throw the blankets in the trunk and take her a couple of feet (or twenty) away from the others to make her feel comfortable when she's talking to me.

"I, um, can I speak to you alone for a second?"

Edward eyes us.

"Edward, can you guys wait for us for a second?" I shout. "We just need to pee!"

The guys laugh. They heard.

Rosalie and I start to walk towards the middle of the field again. She looks up at the stars, hums and takes a deep, deliberate breath. The winds blows in her face, and there a tiny smile on her face, like she's relishing the moment. She looks like an angel.

"I'll never forget this New Year," she mutters, locking eyes with me. "It's amazing."

"Neither will I," I agree. "One of the best."

Rosalie takes another breath, motioning for me to walk with her.

"So, I have a surgery in New York."

"I thought you weren't sure yet."

"Oh, I'm sure, I'm just… preparing Edward."

"For what? That word freaks me out."

"No reason to," she says, sending me this fragile yet strong smile. "I want you to promise me. To promise me that no matter, no matter what happens, you'll be here for Edward. It's difficult to express how much finding out that you're adopted affects you, and he's kind of lost. No, I didn't have it easy, either, jumping back and forth between families, but at least I had time to get used to the idea. He hasn't had that yet. Finding that you don't really belong anywhere… it consumes more of you than he lets on. I think that's part of the reason he's so incredibly touchy-feely with people. Especially you. If you accept him, he _belongs_. I don't care if you're his best friend or girlfriend, just don't leave him during the next few months, alright?"

"Rosalie, you talk like—don't talk like that."

"I just want him to be with you if I—should I, you know."

"Rosalie, I'm—you'll be fine."

"No, listen, Bella. Listen good. Life is short, and the fraction of it that I've experienced, neither quality nor quantity of it, is what anyone deserves. I have faith, though, that if I finally have the chance to be healthy, at least I'll know how to live each day like it's my last. I don't know you well, Bella, but from what I've seen and heard, that's exactly what you're good at. Edward needs that spirit and sheer enthusiasm for life you have. He thinks you're the best thing that's ever happened to him. He thinks you're amazing."

"I'm not really all that. He's just being nice."

She ignores me. "He doesn't know this surgery is important. I want him to think it's just a bump in the road. But it's crucial. The survival rate is so, it's so—" her voice cracks, and she delivers an old, folded envelope. Frankly, I'm surprised I'm not bawling my eyes out yet. "Should—should the worst happen, give this to him. Please. You're so authentic, Bella. Never lose that. And I know, I know it's a lot to ask. But please. If it happens, it's just for one time, and he'll always remember it coming from someone he loves."

I'm crying. "You'll survive, Rosalie. I know you will. But just to make you happy, I'll take it and keep it until you're back. Alright?"

"Thank you." She smiles through her tears. "One more thing—if he ends up searching for our mom, he'll only find dead ends. That's because she died a couple of years ago. I haven't found our dad yet. So when I'm no longer here to tell him this, please be the one to tell him."

"Fuck."

She lets out a teeny-tiny, humorless chuckle. She takes another one of those gasping-for-life breaths, raising her eyes to look at the stars, and she really does look like an angel.

"I feel like we could've been really good friends, Bella. There's just something about you, you know? You make everyone feel special."

"But we can be. Stop talking like you're already gone. You're here, you're alive, you're amazing."

"I am, huh?" She lets out a sweet little laugh, like it's a wonderful, amazing, unexpected thought. "We are." Our eyes lock, we're both crying, but I smile for the sweet, shy, fucking strong human being I've only just barely gotten to know who feels she might not be with us in a few weeks.

Gently, carefully, I put my hand over her shoulder as we start walking back. Slowly, she looks up to me (because I am a giant of a girl), and laughs through her tears.

"I think we're in desperate need for some two thousand and thirteen ice cream."


	16. Where Is My Nest?

"Black bears rarely attack. But here's the thing. Sometimes they do. All bears are agile, cunning and immensely strong, and they are always hungry. If they want to kill you and eat you, they can, and pretty much whenever they want. That doesn't happen often, but—and here is the absolutely salient point—once would be enough." ― Bill Bryson

: :

_Thursday, the 17__th__ of February  
7:57 PM. Exhausted but happy, sitting on my own bed, in my own room._

I can't believe it's been six weeks since my last rant. Six busy weeks. Well, no. That was a lie. I _can_ believe it's been six weeks.

There's a lot to be said.

First and foremost (or not): my body finally decided to catch up with the rest of humanity—er, I mean, females—and it seems that at the ancient age of seventeen, I am at last to be recognized as a female. A round of applause for my belated hormones, ladies and gentlemen! I'm almost a C – – (ad infinitum) cup. Or B + +. Or something. Either way, improvement.

Um, no.

I'm such a liar.

This is where I'm supposed to gush about how "breathtakingly" beautiful I've become. No can do, my friend. Still very little boob-material. Still an A cup. Some things in life never change.

But some things do.

Such as my hips, my weight and my extraordinary muscularity. For real. My priorities are a bit skewed, though, because out of those three, do you know which one makes me the happiest? The first one. My hips.

Why yes, I am officially shallow.

In my defense, you are looking at a girl who has—not once in her life—felt feminine. Cut me some slack. Or call me shallow. Whichever makes you happy, Future Emmett.

At 122 pounds and a BMI of 17.5 (which I am incredibly proud of), I seem to have hit a plateau. I've gained nothing in two weeks and it's really starting to irritate me. No, I'm sorry. That was misleading. I _have_ gained something.

Stretch marks.

Yes. Not only pregnant women get them, apparently. So does Isabella Swan Extraordinaire. I'm not too worried, though, a few lines on my hips and chest aren't gonna kill me. One would hope.

If my life were a fairy-tale, this is the place where I'd tell you that an awkward-looking teenager blossomed overnight, became the most gorgeous, popular girl in her school, and even her nose magically reduced itself. Nope. My nose is still there, between my brown eyes and above my mouth that's now too big for my face. But the fat in my body seems to have relocated due to my exercising, or birth control pills, or my natural hormones, or whatever; and thus, my cheek-bones are starting to show. I know! I thought I was born without them, too!

Correction: if my life were a fairy-tale, I still wouldn't thrive to become popular. Besides, what is a fairy-tale? A romantic story with a happy ending?

_Cinderella_ teaches you to cook, clean and be nice to people who borderline abuse you on a daily basis. Being pretty and having a tiny shoe size always helps you land a prince. Wallow in self-pity and don't fix your problems, just wait for a miracle to happen. Also, when said prince is supposed to pick a bride, pretend to be someone else on the ball. That's how you land the perfect man, ladies and gentlemen.

_Beauty and the Beast_? Please, act violent and hold me captive. Yes, clearly all women should thrive to (continue to) be with a violent man because maybe—just maybe—there's a sensible man underneath.

Fuck no.

In_ The Little Mermaid_, the mermaid literally gives up everything in her life (including her voice) to be with the man who saw her once. _Once_. And even that encounter was barely conscious. She makes all the sacrifices and he makes none. Perfect relationship, aye?

In conclusion, you're taught to be obedient, cooking and cleaning-loving, gorgeous piece of girl who does absolutely nothing to improve her life. Just sit around and wait. Everything will fix itself as long as you're pretty. A prince will come (as long as you're pretty.) That prettiness factor is really important. Next to the damsel in distress factor.

Fuck that shit. Never aim for a fairy-tale: they lie.

Yeah, I'd love to be loved and adored by a man. Giving up my dreams for him? I'd resent him for the rest of my life. Living happily ever after? Well, I'm sure I'll live a happy life if I decide to work hard and enjoy what I do, but I'm sure I'll have disagreements and I'll fight and make mistakes and be human.

Did you notice the really fun part in _Tangled_? When Rapunzel's hair is cut off, her magical blonde locks turn _brown _and_ lose their magic_. Thank you, Disney. Ouch.

Anyway. How in the world you can go from zero hip to 35 inches in two months is beyond me, but my body seems to have achieved it. You know, other women go through this for three or four years. But nope. Not me. Two months of stretch marks, and tada! You're a woman! You know, John Mayer, I think you were right. My body is a wonderland, alright. With stretch marks and no-boobs and everything.

Angela thinks I'll become one of those amazing-looking girls with a really low self-esteem.

Snort.

Because of my newfound curves—but not like pretty curvy-curves, more like a bit on the gangly side curves—I've had to change my wardrobe. Actually, to learn to appreciate the little things in life, I already made a resolution (to visit a few second-hand stores and start to change my wardrobe) before school started. I hope you're imagining a beautiful, classical and chic wardrobe, because it couldn't be further from the truth. I bought pantyhose with stripes and dots and ugly skirts and bright pink suspenders and absolutely everything that couldn't be in fashion right now. Bright colors, light colors, insane patterns with zigzags next to Elvis' face and a random red flower dangling from a button.

Sometimes I'd wear striped long socks with knee-length nasty-colored flannel pants, a red festive-looking blouse and those pink suspenders that don't match with the rest at all. Not that the rest would match.

It's driving Alice nuts.

I love it.

Oh, I made Edward's mom die my hair. It's blond-ish now. Dark blonde or something. Growing closer to my eyebrows. So that's that.

So, at first I started to wear pointless shit just to amuse myself, just for the change, to do something different. But now? I am totally doing it to annoy Alice. She thinks I'm committing fashion suicide.

Thank god for that. It would be awful if she actually approved of what I wear.

Angela, on the other hand, thinks my newfound caring about anything but jeans fits with my personality. Hey, I think I'll trust Angela on this one, I don't care that Alice has famous model friends and shit.

Emmett, I saw that yawn. I feel you, man. Sorry. Just had to get it out, you know?

I don't know where to start with the rest. There's too much.

Do you know how hard I work not to be prejudiced against people, be it their personality, appearance or beliefs? I work fucking hard, alright. If you're a good person, I either don't care about the rest or I'm able to foresee it. It won't matter. That applies to the cheerleaders, the jocks, the band geeks, whoever. I don't really see the world—er, high school—in terms of popularity. Or who's in, who's out, what's in, what's out. Who cares? In a few years, I'll be gone. I don't care who I hang out with. Well, to a point.

But Alice?

During the first lunch we ate together, she asked what was _wrong_ with me that I'm seeing her grandfather (I told her I choked my parents to death when I was five), and that wasn't even so bad.

On the first day, everyone's excited because she's exotic and she's been to expensive private schools all over the world. Her dad is a diplomat. She was born in Shanghai and lived in Milan and Switzerland and London and God knows where else. See? This is genuinely fascinating. It really is. If Edward had come to our school with a background like hers, just kept his own attitude, he would've been _the_ man in a day. No doubt. But the sad part is, the way she presents herself, the awful shit she says about her previous "friends," the amount of gossip she's stirring, and the fact that, within the month and a half she's been here, she has literally talked about every person in my group of friends behind their backs.

It all makes me want to worship her beauty. Not.

Usually, I feel quite indifferent about gossip. It's just not for me, you know? I'm not rigid about it, I can have fun, but I don't spread shit that I know is not true. Alice on the other hand, well. Don't make me say it.

I think I've finally understood her appeal (oh, yes, she's popular): it's the fact she creates intrigue. She's _exciting_. Never mind that her actions are sometimes transparently guided by jealousy or god knows what, she's _intriguing_. She's gorgeous. She's friends with well-known models. She's travelled the world.

Too bad it doesn't show.

So, she set her eyes on Edward. Maybe wanting to create this exclusive club for gorgeous-ass group of gorgeous-ass people with their gorgeous ass.

The first time I understood she set her eyes on him, I beat her to death.

Um, no. No I didn't. I wanted to, though. I felt like someone ripped my heart out and replaced it with guano. I have no business feeling those feelings—he's not mine—but it disturbs me. So much. Around him, she's sweet and chatty and smiley and adorable. Such a sweet little girl. The only thing that stopped me from setting her perfect black hair on fire was the fact that, much to my surprise, Edward acted even more aloof with her than with Tanya.

Edward is a better judge of character than I give him credit for. Or he just doesn't like her.

After I understood he didn't seem to be affected by her, not even the friendly kind, seeing Alice attempt to pick up Edward became sort of funny. It was like solo squash. A person and a wall. Not like tennis with two people and a ball.

I think what really solidified his lack of feelings for her happened a week ago, and dare I say it, I was the star of her little whisper.

It's one of the unfortunate days when she sits on the opposite of me, wanting to talk to Jessica. At one point, their conversation quiets down (unfortunately for her, so does ours), and she sort of stares at me for a while until she looks directly at Lauren (sitting next to her) and whispers, "Why's Bella eating with you guys, anyway?"

Hoo-lee fuck. Yes, I'm deaf, you dear sweet angel.

I'm starting to feel like she has something personal against me. Does it show that I used to be bullied a lot? I am no longer tolerant of everyone. I fucking hate this chick.

Half of the table is either coughing their drinks out or gaping, or—in Edward's case—looking at her like he's seen the light and it's guiding him to the lowliest scum on a piece of dirt that is swimming in excrement.

I don't fucking care that Edward and I will never be an item. I will dream and relieve that single look of utter horror on his face, that tight jaw and eyes that have turned into slits, a look that turns into the most protective glare I have ever witnessed. Hoo-lee fuck, it's amazing how much he cares.

"Excuse me?" Lauren asks, looking between Alice and I, clearly confused by her question.

"It's okay, Lauren."

"It's not fucking okay, Bella," she insists, her voice getting louder. Until now, I felt like people were quite impressed by her, but apparently, not as much as I thought. Lauren, with her icy no-bullshit glare, locks eyes with Alice. "That is fucking unacceptable. Have you _met_ her? She makes your personality look so flat it's like old paint peeling off the walls. What kind of shitty schools did you go to that taught you to be so judgmental? 'cause they couldn't have been that good. What the actual fuck?"

Seriously, I'll buy Lauren a gallon of hot chocolate or something.

Tyler high-fives her, and the rest are just gaping at Alice, clearly in shock. Alice, apparently, is unfamiliar with the idea that (I'm trying to suppress the urge to use the word 'ugly'), that, well, a girl like me would be cared about within her group of friends.

In fact, she is so unfamiliar that she looks back and forth between my friends and shrugs. "I don't get it."

"I know you haven't seen many people from the real life, mingling with models and all, but word to the wise: ugly people have friends, too."

"But you're, you look like—" she starts, and never in my life have I seen a tableful of people looking so uncomfortable.

"I look like what? A horse? You've told me that already. A girl who was bullied in middle school? Yes. Yes I was. How much fucking detail do you want? Do I know what being fucking miserable feels like? Yes. Do you need to stop talking? Yes."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" she starts, but the thing is, she doesn't look remotely regretful. Underneath it all, she looks _victorious_. Like she made me say what she wanted to hear. Thank you for manipulating. Bitch.

"You did. And you got it."

Edward locks eyes with me from across the table, looking like he wants to scoop me up in his arms and never let go, but then he looks at Laurent, and he lowers his eyes.

I know the environment Alice has been in must've molded her personality (which is to say she is not to be blamed for who she is), but I don't feel comfortable with that estimation. Because every time she says something shitty (alliteration for the win), my first thought isn't. 'Oh, it's only because her parents don't care or her friends have been bad influence.'

No. She's an asshole.

Would it have been possible for me to turn out just like her if I had a different group of friends or a different family? Maybe. Do I think this excuses her behavior? No. And I feel bad about that answer, but I genuinely think everyone is responsible for their own actions. Including her.

She's (sort of) among the people I converse with, sadly, which means I defy her on a regular basis. The weird part is, she rarely says anything straight-out. (That incident about why I sit with them excluded.) Usually, if she initiates something, it's a rumor akin to _'you know, Jessica saw Garrett say something-or-other about Ashley this-or-that and oh my God, Peter is an alien!' _

You know what I mean.

To the best of my knowledge, for the first three weeks, she never made up shit about me because I'm not popular or anything. No point, you know? I do, however, have a few friends who _are_ popular, including Lauren. And everyone gets along with Edward, it seems. But after Edward makes it clear he doesn't want to hold a conversation with her, there's a whole swarm of made up shit about me.

I don't know if she wants everyone to hate me or bully me or—who knows? I don't.

First, a rumor goes around that Laurent is only with me because of a bet. That one is laughable, because he's been in Drama for six months and he's not that good of an actor. Trust me, he's not. I highly doubt he's faking being into me.

So that rumor doesn't hurt me at all.

The second rumor is of the same caliber: Edward is my friend only out of pity. When Edward tells me this, he's so offended and distraught he looks like someone shot him in the leg. I hug the bejesus out of him. He holds me like I'm his lifeline.

For the first time, I thoroughly understand the saying: _Acting is reacting_. Life is not so much as what happens to you but how you react to it. And since my reactions are of the laughable indifference spectrum, Alice hasn't been able to come up with a rumor that people would genuinely believe. Because, apparently, Edward wears his heart in his sleeve and everyone knows how much we care about each other.

Frankly, I'm offended she's not more creative. Why not lie that I have STDs? That I had a threesome with Peter Gallaghe and Mr. Kramer? Nope. She doesn't even know how much fun I could have with those rumors. I would buy myself a doll shaped like Gonorrhea bacteria and name it Kramer. Or buy two: Kramer vs Kramer.

Can you see how much I could work with that? But no. She's just spreading boring stuff about me that nobody believes anyway. Or maybe they do. I don't know. I don't care.

The third rumor that Alice spreads about me is a big deal. It's such a big deal it lands me in the principal's office. Mr. Kramer himself, ladies and gentlemen. So what did I do?

I did not beat up Alice. Tempting, but no. Nor did I break any rules. Again: tempting, but no.

Like a déjà vu of a déjà vu, the school secretary interrupts my class (this time, it's Biology) and asks me to follow her to the principal's office. I feel myself go pale quickly because I imagine both Emmett and dad in a terrifying place where they are very, very—_un_alive. Not a word, who cares. Edward squeezes my wrist and gives me this questioning, worried glance. I get up and leave the classroom.

When I close the door to the principal's office, I see the ponytail belonging to my coach, Mr. Black, which is strange. I don't have a clue as to why he's here. Maybe I'm amazing and they want to offer a sports scholarship to an Ivy League school? That would be rather nice. But no.

"Please have a seat, Miss Swan."

I sit, glancing at Mr. Black who offers a brief greeting. Curious but aloof, he continues to stare at Mr. Kramer.

"Do you know why I have invited you to my office today, Mr. Black?" Mr. Kramer says, looking back and forth between us. "Miss Swan?"

"You think my fashion choice is incredibly original and want to know who the designers are?"

Mr. Black gives me a brief but warm smile, suppressing a chuckle.

"No. Should it not come as a surprise to me that you, Miss Swan, despite having only Cs, Ds, and even Es—and not a single A or B in PE for ten years—now have suddenly only As? Does that not strike you as strange?"

"Er, not really, sir."

"Really?"

I shrug. "Not at all."

"What about you, Mr. Black?"

Briefly, Mr. Black locks eyes with me and gives me a warm-hearted smile. "She's deserved every one of them."

"Really?" he asks, skeptical-sounding. "Does that include sexual favors?"

Hoo-lee fuck, Alice is dead. Dead, I tell you.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, it's the most surreal situation I've found myself in. Ever. Mr. Black's eyes go wide like saucers, he stares at Mr. Kramer, at me, back at Mr. Kramer and clears his throat. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I ask directly, are you or are you not having sex with Miss Isabella Swan?"

"Where did you hear that? That's ridiculous."

"You did not answer the question, Mr. Black."

"I am not. Of course not."

"I do not normally follow trivial gossip, but it has reached me that Miss Isabella Swan is getting grades she has not deserved, and I find this drastic improvement rather strange in the light of her past grades. How else would you explain it?"

"Sir, I work out like crazy for the summer marathon. Six days a week. At around five to seven in the morning I'll be in the gym to exercise. You can check in on me if you'd like. My grades have improved because I'm working out more. It's as simple as that."

"Is what she said true?"

Mr. Black nods.

Mr. Kramer's eyes flicker back and forth between us, until he finally lifts his chair closer to his table and puts his elbows on the table.

"I believe you. But I will check on you, and if there's even the slightest—"

The door behind us swings open, revealing my drama teacher Peter, who's hyperventilating, tearing off his black hat as he tries to calm his breathing, panic written all over his face. There's terror unlike anything I've seen on his face.

He's panting. "Principal Kramer, this rumor is not true—it cannot be. Mr. Black has never nor will he ever be involved with Be—Miss Swan."

Mr. Kramer's eyebrows hide themselves underneath his hair.

"That is a confident claim," he says. "And why is that?"

Coach Black is literally facepalming next to me, but tilts his head back to briefly lock eyes with Peter, shaking his head with a look on his face that I later decipher as pleading.

"Because Mr. Black and I are in a relationship, sir," Peter answers. "So you see, such a thing would be impossible."

Mr. Black continues to facepalm, avoiding everyone's eyes in the room, while Peter stares Mr. Kramer down, almost as if daring him to say something sarcastic or offensive. Or daring him to fire them.

"I see," Mr. Kramer stands, slightly red-faced. "I guess that's settled then. You may resume to your classroom, Miss Swan."

I nod. The moment Mr. Kramer's office's door shuts behind us, Peter and Mr. Black are at each other's throats, quietly but intensively arguing. Mr. Black, slightly shorter and sturdier, with his everlasting pony-tail and gym clothes, and Peter, with his lean body and pierced body parts and lavender button-down.

"I just can't believe you did that!"

"Your job could've been in jeopardy, Jacob, what was I supposed to—"

"But it isn't! It wasn't. He told us he believed—"

"What are you so scared of?"

"You can't just—you told me you'd give me time—and now? I can't do this anymore! I can't."

Peter takes a step back, looking like he's been punched in the gut, and after two seconds of silence, they both stare at me. "You think Bella is going to tell?"

"I'm blind and deaf and mute," I say quickly. "This never happened."

Peter nods at me, raising his eyes to lock them with Jacobs. He's rubbing his forehead, hunched. I feel like I'm intruding, but when I turn to leave, Peter taps on my shoulder and motions for me to stay. So I do.

"Why do you always have to—"

"What? Take care of you? That's what people do in a relation—"

"Don't."

"—ship."

"Stop fucking with me."

"That train has already left."

For the first time in my life, I recognize lust in someone's eyes, and Jesus, do they have a lot of it or what. Their faces are ten inches apart, they're both hyperventilating, and I'm positive one of them will snap within thirty seconds. So, without a word, I usher them to the closest empty classroom. Honestly, we should have a Room of Requirement.

"This tension is killing me. Either fuck each other senseless or kill each other. I won't come to check which happened, but I'm sure I'll hear the ambulance. I'll never speak of this again until you're consensually able to come out with this. Understood? Good. Have a great time, er, sorting things out."

Using more force than necessary, I push the door closed. When I get back to Mr. Banner, I'm a bit frazzled and disheveled and distracted. It shows. A few people whisper and ask me questions, but I make it back to my bench in one piece. I'm starting to realize I just pushed two of my teachers in a classroom to fuck each other senseless.

Okay-dokey.

Gotta love high school, you know?

After Drama and a few awkward moments between Edward and Laurent, a serious-looking Peter asks me to stay after Drama. So I do. Laurent gives me a kiss (Edward pointedly looks away), saying he'll drop by at AMC Theatre in the evening, and they head off to football practice together. They've grown to be sort of friends. Emphasizing _sort_ _of_.

That's a whole other story.

I sit on the edge of the stage, looking at my feet as they dangle off the side of the stage in my yellow and red and green dotted pantyhose. Peter stands in front of me, giving me a careful, closed mouth smile. He's still brown-haired. He's still pierced. Nothing's changed, except there's a wary way about him. After a moment of mutual staring, he decides to jump on the stage next to me. He's about three years older than Edward, but I think where Peter just seems careless, Edward fails to do so in my eyes. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. What he appears to be to the rest of the world, that's a different story altogether.

Peter still must be worried, though, or he wouldn't feel the need to talk to me.

"How are you, Bella?"

"I'm not going to say anything, if that's what you mean."

"I know," he replies, glancing my way. "Seriously, how are you?"

I look back at him. He's playing with his lip piercing, and he's completely serious.

"I'm fine."

"But are you really?"

"You don't think I'd know if I weren't fine?"

"You tell me."

"You're weird, Peter. Please let yourself get checked by a professional."

He laughs. Soon, he continues to play with his lip ring.

"I checked your GPA."

"Oooh, I am so scared. So did you decide I am, in fact, having sex with your boyfriend? Because I can assure you, I might be totally amazing, but I lack this wonderful thing called penis."

"You have a disarming talent for expressing things in a way that's incapable of offending anyone."

"Bastard."

He laughs.

"So you checked my GPA."

"Yes," he confirms. "And it told me a lot about your activities this semester."

"Oh, God. Not you, too. Is this the place where you take any random action of mine and start to attach all sorts of hidden meanings to it? 'cause I have a therapist for that."

"I know."

"So you're trying to tell me I shouldn't be with Laurent?"

"Well, according to your GPA, it's the opposite."

"Wait. How do you know I'm seeing a psychologist?"

"I spoke to Emmett."

"And he willingly told you this? Just like that? Bastard."

"He's _very_ proud of you."

"He's also _very_ dead tomorrow."

Peter gives me that new, wary look, and sighs.

"We're friends, aren't we, Bella?"

"Well, as much as a doorknob and a sticky note can be, I guess." He chuckles, and I smile. "Sure we're friends."

He breathes in and exhales really, really slowly.

"I know what happened between you and Michael Newton."

I stop swinging my feet, pull them underneath me, and take a deep, painful breath. I hang my head. In an instant, I'm red-faced.

"Emmett is so fucking dead it's not even funny."

"He said nothing."

"Then who? Fuck, don't tell me this is something Alice is spreading around that accidentally turned out to be true. I'll die. Or is it like common knowledge and I'm the only one trying to be discreet about it?"

"No. It was Jacob."

"He _knows_? Oh, God."

"What?"

"Does _everyone_ know?"

"No, just me and Jacob. And whoever you've told."

"How?"

"Jacob cornered him."

"He _admitted_ it? You're serious? When?"

"A while ago."

"How long have you known?"

"He told me yesterday," he says, this uncomfortable (unsuitable) weight in his tone. He tilts his head on the side, looking at me with a tight-lipped smile that bears no resemblance to the light-hearted guy I've grown to know.

"You should've pressed charges against him."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda, Peter. It all means shit."

"I dunno. You could get him expelled if you wanted."

"Unless the coach recorded him, I have no evidence."

He opens and closes his mouth, but not a word comes out.

"No, Peter. Not you, too. I couldn't have handled the situation any differently than I did, or any better than I am. There's a level of detachment I'd have to feel to discuss this on such a personal level, and I don't feel it. I'm not ready."

"But people will understand," he says, almost back to the lighthearted guy I know. "They'll be like, 'whoa, that chic is fucking strong.' They already accept you."

"It's beyond obvious you've spoken to Emmett."

"Why?"

I ignore him.

"He didn't rape me, you know."

"That's a bit beside the point, don't you think?"

"No. That _is_ the point. If he'd managed to actually rape me, I would've ended myself a loo-hong time ago."

"So he forced you to blow him. Big fucking difference."

"You don't get it, Peter. With me admitting to being harassed by one of the most popular jocks in our school, that requires readiness for a certain kind of attention. And I don't want that."

"You could go under the radar."

"That never happens. Things you've done or what's happened to you in the past—the stuff you don't want other people to see? That's the first to come out. As to why am I not ready, well, shame or guilt or whatever shit you want to call it is why.

"It's why your boyfriend is probably wary of coming out. I seriously doubt he's ashamed of you. Of himself? I don't know. But when you lie a certain kind of information out there for people to see and judge and think it's their fucking business, that'll change the way people treat you. It will. Trust me, coming from someone who's spent the majority of her teenage years desperate to be wallpaper, I should know."

He raises an eyebrow. "You think that's why Jacob's so…"

"Yeah. But don't look at me like I had all the answers or something. I don't. I'm a fucking seventeen year-old impertinent wallflower. I know nothing about real life. All I have are theories."

"I think you've seen more life than you give yourself credit for."

"Don't start. There are people out that who've got it way, way worse than I did."

"Half a decade of terror and a sexual assault. Gee, that sounds like the life of everyone I know."

"Stop it. I'm not downplaying what happened. I'm just saying, you can't assume I'll start pouring my soul out to everyone who's willing to listen. I won't. I appreciate that you probably want to help, but you can't. Not with this."

I offer him a smile to soothe my words, and he after a second of staring, he nods and sighs. It's weird: while Emmett was busy being offended and surprised by the fact I hadn't told anyone (especially him), Peter seemed more surprised that I hadn't taken action against the cause of my problem.

The thing is, it wouldn't have—and it won't—"fix" me. If Michael Newton died of a heart-attack tonight, that wouldn't change the fact that my first sexual experience made me feel indescribable amount of shame and helplessness and inadequacy.

See? I'm getting better at talking about it in my diary on vague terms.

"Is it helping?"

"The talking? I don't know."

"You have no idea how much this news shocked me." He rubs his face. "You're so different from anyone I'd imagine having gone through that."

"I'm not. I'm just better at channeling the emotions."

"You've done one heck of a job," he says, pulling his legs so that he's sitting cross-legged next to me. He looks at me for a second, opening his mouth, but he closes it again and sighs. I've never seen him so… out of character. He's carefree. He's fun. He's never like this.

"This is actually not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"So you want to know my clothes' designers, too?"

Just like our coach, Peter laughs. "No."

"Damn. I thought you, at least, would appreciate my craziness."

"I do. But I've got something more serious I need to discuss with you."

"That line always precedes a weeping story about having cancer. Please be alright."

"I am," he replies, humming—an action he's probably gotten from his boyfriend.

"I'm leaving."

"To Cleveland? To finish your degree?"

"Yup."

"Okay. Do you want me to replace you for a while?"

"I'm leaving—as in, I'm resigning."

"No."

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "Yes, I am."

"No, no. Peter. You can't do this to us."

"It's about time I did this, actually. I've postponed it long enough."

"Who's going to teach us then? You're the reason I go to school!"

He lets out a laugh, but it has a sad undertone to it. "_Drama_ is the reason you go to school, Bella. Or perhaps it's that red-haired best friend of yours. _I_ have nothing to do with it."

"But you're the best fucking Drama teacher we've ever had! Who's gonna replace you?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Is it Mr. Ferton again? That's horrible. People will commit suicide not to have him. The last time he replaced your granny, all but eight quit Drama."

"No," he says, smiling. "Not him."

"Who then?"

"You."

"Me what?"

"You could replace me next year. Be North Cedar's next Drama teacher."

"Are you _out of your mind_?"

He laughs.

"You want _me_ to teach the entire school's Drama students?"

"Yup."

"That's preposterous."

"I've asked Mr. Kramer, and he agreed if you agreed. But you need to keep your newfound perfect GPA up."

"But I'm a student!"

"Yup."

"I can't be a teacher."

"Why not? Just for next year. You have the authority and you already spent two months of this year replacing me. Not much would change."

"_Everything_ would change."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"You're insane, Peter. _Insane_."

"I'll take that as a yes," he replies, amused. "I have something else."

"Should I run for president while I'm at it?"

"Very funny," he replies, and raises his eyes to lock with mine. "I want you to apply to Juilliard."

I hear a loud, obnoxious laugh, and not until I close my mouth do I realize it came from me.

Peter is suppressing a smile. "I'm serious."

"That's what's so funny."

"I'm not going to lie: it's a heck of a competition to get in. Only five percent does it. But I want you to try—for your own sake. You owe it to yourself. Your passion and talent and honesty might be just what they're looking for. You stick out. But if you do decide to give it a shot, you need to start acting now—even before getting in, there's application, a letter of recommendation, resume and live audition—all sorts of stuff. I can help you with anything you need. I've done this before."

"Oh, wow. You really do want me to apply."

"Of course."

"I'm flattered. You have no idea."

"But?"

"Don't you think it's a bit unrealistic?"

"Coming from a girl who is so focused on training for a marathon that she has to be minutes away from women's world record to achieve her goals? No. Not really."

"Touché."

"So you'll think about it?"

"Sure. But won't you be in Cleveland?"

"I have… people here. I'll be here occasionally."

"Gotcha."

"And then there's email and Facebook."

"And a hunk of a man with a ponytail."

He laughs. "Speaking of which, can I give a piece of advice?"

"Is it about my relationship?"

"Maybe."

"I thought you liked Laurent."

"I never said I didn't."

"Okay, shoot."

"You just… don't seem happy, Bella. I don't want you to suppress your own desire for freedom and happiness because you're afraid to hurt someone. Making others happy at your own expense is not how a sustainable relationship should work."

"Did you spend the entire day trying to make this piece of advice as vague as possible? If yes, well done."

"Ah, right. You want me to be blunt."

"Please."

"Well, then. I think you should consider that your relationship with Laurent is making that best friend of yours insanely jealous."

"Huh."

"Was that blunt enough for you?"

"Yes, thank you. That doesn't mean I have to agree, though."

"What's there not to agree?"

"Well, there are different kinds of jealousy. It's just that I haven't spent as much time with him as we used to. Or, like with kids, they're just jealous of the time and attention they get. So maybe it's that."

Peter huffs and groans, running a hand along his face as he still keeps a smile on his face.

"Do me a favor, will you? Think of it as practicing for your Juilliard audition."

"Sounds intriguing. What do you want me to do?"

"Go home, and when Edward is there, start talking to your phone as if you were talking to Laurent. Be as lovey-dovey as you can be, and observe his reaction."

"You just want to tell me 'I told you so' tomorrow, huh?"

"Yup."

"Alright. I'll consider it, but just for you."

I jump off the edge of the stage. Peter smiles. "And Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Think about Juilliard."

I offer a smile, nod, and pick up my back bag. On my (snowy) way home, I'm thinking of Peter's words about Juilliard, about my GPA, and of course, about Edward. I saw Peter's reaction to my words for what it was: impatience. The thing is, though, I'm no longer as oblivious as I used to be. Or maybe seeing Laurent's genuine interest in me has taught me to believe in myself and see things I would've otherwise been blind to.

You know, I re-read my diary, and I seem to have left the impression that Edward is a vulnerable, sensitive guy. And he is. He really is. I don't know any other guy so effortless in expressing emotion, and I mean that in the best possible way. But now that I've grown to know him, I ought to correct myself: Edward is an incredibly sensitive guy, but—and this is an important _but_—this is a side of him that he only lets me see. In a way, that side of him seems to be exclusive to me.

On the second week of January, girls decided to discuss guys in the locker room. They went through guys in our class one by one, but the way they described Edward left me utterly confused. Yes, freakishly tall and handsome, scruffy jawline ("swoon-worthy" in my classmates' words), green eyes, bronze-colored "sex hair." Appearance-wise, I agree with what they said. The character they applied to the man behind the appearance? Opened my eyes a bit.

It wasn't necessarily that I didn't agree at all, it's just that I was surprised by the prevailing opinion. First and foremost, Edward was thought to be _authoritative_. Charming, effortlessly confident, easy-going and polite. I agree. I wouldn't have listed _authoritative_ as his first quality, but I agree with the general consensus. Who wouldn't? It's safe to say that Edward has charmed his way into the girls' hearts yet he seems indifferent to the attention.

In the middle of this verbal dissecting, I opened my mouth to express my disagreement. But—just as wisely—I shut it.

In my opinion, Edward's most prevalent attribute is the unique ease with which he expresses emotional maturity. Or the incredible amount of warmth he isn't afraid to express. He's so unashamed about admitting the mistakes he's made and having fears and being touchy-feely.

And then I woke up.

Those characteristics that I credit to him? That _I _think are so prevalent? This is not just a matter of me being right (assuming I know "the real him") and the other girls being wrong because they don't know "the real him." No. It's not that black and white.

It took me a few weeks to understand this, but the other girls are right. But so am I.

This year, Edward threw himself into extracurricular activities. Not only did the coach convince him to focus on basketball because of his height, Edward is now writing for the school paper, taking guitar lessons, and volunteering for WWF. If you add Drama, voluntary work in Harborview Medical Center, and the fact that he's still in our football team, you realize.

Edward stole Hermione's time turner.

Heh, no. Not really.

He's just trying to kill himself.

He's clearly trying to avoid being home at all costs—or—he's trying to avoid thinking at all costs. While there's no doubt in my mind he's craving for more freedom than his parents offer us, somehow, I think he's numbing himself from thinking. Rosalie's words echo in my mind on a daily basis, and I've been trying to be there for him. I have. But he's never home, and I'm rarely home, and when we do finally speak to each other, he has already shut himself out.

No, he doesn't refuse to speak to me, he isn't rude, nothing like that. It's subtle. Way more subtle than a few words and a broken gesture.

He's gregarious. He gets along and mingles. So it took me a while, but I started to understand why you'd say he leaves the impression that he's got an authoritative nature. He does. I didn't see it before, but maybe that's because it just _wasn't_ _there_. I doubt it's a conscious decision. It puzzled me until I (think I) finally figured it out.

How would I feel if I knew I were three years older than the rest of the students? Angry because of the time I've lost? Frustrated about the level of (im)maturity? Trying to prove myself? I'd feel all of those things, and then some. And that, I think, speaks volumes about why he seems to reach a level of effortless confidence impossible for the rest of us teenagers.

Whether or not he acknowledges it, he's above it. He shouldn't be here. He should be in a university, living his own life. By the time he's done with high school, he'll be _twenty_ _two_. No wonder he's got freedom issues. I would, too.

Edward's parents are just bursting with pride. It thrills them how active and hard-working their only son is. That's understandable. It is. Regardless, most of the time, I just want to slap them to bring them out of it. Edward is not involved because it brings him such joy (excluding volunteering for WWF, which really does bring a sparkle to his eyes), he's draining himself from thinking. From feeling, too, probably. He's lost. He's losing himself in his extra-curriculars.

I should know. I'm losing myself in my studies.

Same thing, different methods.

What Mr. Kramer (and Peter) said about my GPA, though, is completely true. But it's not just P.E. My Spanish, it used to be a weak C. I had a persistent B in Literature. Mostly As and Bs. Now? All As. Including P.E.

Half of it was sheer curiosity: after getting my first A in P.E., I wondered if I could be a straight A student. Would I be able to do it? As it turns out, yes. Yes I am. It's just a matter of using time efficiently. And bugging Emmett about Spanish.

But the other half? That's escapism. Pure escapism.

A few weeks ago, Edward showed up in Drama looking more exhausted than ever. I know he doesn't sleep much—not because he can't, but because he goes to sleep late enough for me to start waking up—but, that Thursday, I thought he'd fall asleep on the spot. It's blue underneath his eyes. He kept pecking. His head drops as he dozes off, but he lifts it as soon as he understands he almost fell asleep. Like I said, pecking. It worries me.

So, I figure, maybe he should drop a few extra-curriculars and get some sleep because he needs it. Boy, does he ever.

But when I tell him to drop Drama, he's horrified. He's rubbing his eyes, asking if he's not good enough or if he should spend extra time doing this or that. How can a guy so easy-going wear his heart in his sleeve when it comes to me? Exhaustion and frustration are written all over his face, and I never noticed that he's only like that with me. He seems to lack a filter only when it comes to me.

I never noticed.

It's safe to say he's grown to be popular. Again, I don't think he's noticed. In ninth grade, a few girls tried to befriend me to get close to Emmett, but now, it's like the entire school's population suddenly saw that he's my best friend, and I get daily suggestions to hang out. It's weird. Everyone wants to get a piece of my best friend (they've long forgotten about his initial awkwardness), and Edward is so polite and kind it's easy to delude yourself he's into you.

Honestly, I don't think any girl in my school deserves him.

In the evening, after I'm done replacing a co-worker of mine, I manage to arrive home just before eleven PM, and it seems that Edward just got home, too. I have yet to study for tomorrow's two tests (and unlike Edward, I'm not an owl-type creature who can study until four AM) but I do remember what Peter suggested that I do.

I don't talk to Laurent on the phone when Edward is around because I figured, if the roles were reversed, I would definitely not want to listen to him talking to a girl.

It's an interesting theory that Peter has.

When I've taken a bite to eat, I study for a while before I go and land on the couch. Edward is sitting on his usual spot on the floor, laptop in his lap (earbuds, too, yes), eating a banana. I pick up my phone, thinking about doing what Peter suggested, but my eyes land on Edward. There's a faint furrow between his brows as he types furiously, so I conclude he's writing. (If he were studying, there would be a lot more pausing and a lot less typing.) For a moment, he stops and lifts his head to lock eyes with me, and he offers a tired smile. I return it. He resumes to writing.

Regardless of what I told Peter, if there's a chance that Edward feels remotely the same, I don't want to hurt him and assume he'd laugh it off if I pulled his leg like this.

I set my phone aside.

: :

I continue to spend an hour of my Fridays with Dr. Hunter. I wouldn't say it's all rainbows and sunshine, but we've come to an unspoken agreement. He evaluates me without his little clipboard, and I (try to) speak from the heart without fearing he'll judge me. I'm not sure why, but it's important to me that he perceive and help me without judging. I know it's inevitable. We judge everyone every day. With Dr. Hunter, I just don't want him approving or disapproving of my actions. I guess I just want unbiased advice with no horns or pillows attached.

So far, so good.

Mostly, we just talk. It's like having a philosophical conversation with a professional. I sometimes make him reciprocate to actually understand the person who's supposed to help me, and I continue to do it even after he tries to convince me he's not supposed to talk about himself (even though he does). How am I supposed to trust the man if I know next to nothing about him?

I haven't told him about the main reason I'm seeing him.

But we're getting there. I've talked to him about my family. About having been bullied. He suggests connections in my life that I've never thought about. Like maybe my lack of weight and forgetting to eat is directly caused by (or at least connected to) the fact that for years I was forced to give away my lunch money, and as a self-defense mechanism, I taught myself not to care about hunger.

True, my struggle to gain weight is difficult not because I don't like eating. I do. But I forget. I've forced myself to forget for so long. It's a habit like any other.

We talk about self-image. The way I think about myself. And I don't have to tell him that I have (had) problems with that. At first, it really annoys me that he thinks this is worth focusing on. But he's right. It is. He makes me do a test to see what kind of relationship I have with food (if it's my way of gaining control over something in my life or if hunger is my way of escaping the problems I don't want to face or if I'm obsessive-compulsive or… you get the idea.)

I think that's the first test he's made me do that shows absolutely nothing. I'm not afraid of getting fat, I'm not trying to feel control over my eating as a metaphor for the control I "lack" in my life, neither am I obsessive-compulsive. Not anorexic, either.

We talk about self-awareness, and the fact that I don't give people time to reject me, or to disapprove of me, so I presume a cause for their behavior that shows me in the worst light because I presume rejection. I prevent it. Being silly, acting silly, saying things just to shock people so they'd see me for who I really am, I do all of that to prevent their disappointment in me (that I _think_ I know is coming). I nip rejection in the bud. I reject people before they can reject me, even if they'd never do that.

Dr. Hunter never tells me, "The conclusions I make are always right and this is how you should think and act from now on." And I like that, you know? Sometimes I agree, sometimes I don't. Sometimes we just brainstorm ideas that neither of us thinks are correct. I try not to think about his techniques to make me open up and stuff because I know it'll make me self-aware and that will make his job a lot harder.

Well, that, and I hate being self-aware.

But what really made me think and act (nothing profound or multi-layered, I promise) was his last week's assignment. Yes, he still gives me those. Last week, he told me to write down three of the most important people currently in my life, why they're important to me and how they've helped me.

So, at ten AM on a Saturday, I'm sitting at the AMC theatre, wearing my polo shirt and (new) slacks. A few people buy tickets from me from time to time, but mostly it's quiet (morning shift often is), which is why I tear a piece of paper from my Chemistry notebook and draw a table: four columns and four rows. Dad. Emmett. Edward. A word I associate with them.

Dad: freedom and/or optimism. Maybe both. Emmett: trust. Definitely trust. Edward:

I don't know. I'd rewrite trust, but I want something else. Tenderness? Affection? Safety? No. Too lukewarm. Edward is intense. Whatever he throws himself into, he puts all of his heart into it. Attaching a lukewarm word to my relationship with him feels wrong.

At one point during my pondering, I hear a throat clear. Raising my eyes, I see Eric, pushing up his glasses and looking all gangly and awkward as he holds hands with a shorter, equally shy girl by his side. Barely ever have I seen anyone from my school at work because I work all the way down in West Lake Hills, just south from Bellevue. Far away from my school district in Kirkland.

"Hi, Bella," Eric mutters, flushing.

"Eric! Great seeing you here! How can I help you guys?"

With wide eyes, the girl pulls at his arm.

"Oh, we know each other from school," I rush to clarify. She offers a shy, embarrassed smile. She's relieved.

The thing is, Eric and I, we're not friends, per se, but we are torture-buddies—ergo, we know more about each other's vulnerabilities than any two regular friends ever could. He keeps pretty much to himself at school, but if he ever does talk to anyone, it's probably me. We went to the same middle school, and we were both incessantly tormented for various reasons. Sometimes, when we'd go from one class to the other, we'd be subject to ceaseless comments about our "romance."

It was never like that, though.

But if there's anyone out there who understands the amount of terror and fear I went through on a daily basis in middle school, it's him. It's like a wordless bond we have—we've never spoken about it, but it's clear that we both know what it's like to fear going to school because of what's waiting for you.

By the time I give them their tickets, they're flushed from head to toe. It's clear he's very into her, but he's embarrassed about it. It's adorable.

They've barely left when a brown-haired girl with a smiling companion appears in front of me, grinning.

"Angela! What're you guys doing here?"

"We just thought we'd surprise you. I've never really seen where you work."

"Nice." I smile. "I haven't seen a familiar face for a year and then our entire school decides to show up."

"Can we come in there?"

There are few people around, so for a while, I let them. I invite Angela to "my" place for the evening, and I observe their interaction. Just for research purposes. It's so clear how into each other they are with both of them finding reasons to touch each other and laughing at each other's jokes. They're so happy and carefree. I want that.

Don't I have that already though? But I don't think I do. I do feel special when I'm with Laurent, but I also feel guilt. Lots and lots of it.

When they've left, I resume to my paper, and all color drains from my face. There, in capital letters next to Edward's name, with no conscious effort, I've written LOVE.

Well, fuck.

: :

There are moments in life when you feel like you've been living in a fog under an overcast sky. But then, the fog evaporates, the sky clears, and it's like you're seeing the blue sky for the first time.

This is definitely not one of those moments.

A caterpillar tractor crushing the remains of your life is more like it. Chaotic, confusing, and unrecognizable.

By the evening, I've driven myself nuts (not raisins) and made more mistakes than the twelve-year old Harriet (the girl I tutor) did. I arrive home by dinnertime, and because Edward (as well as Emmett and Laurent) has a football match in Spokane, I'm alone with his parents. I've learned that having dinner together as a family (if we're home) is the big thing in the Cullen family, and I've tried to live by their rules.

Other than sneaking out at night through my bedroom window, I've been successful.

Even though I've already taken the liberty of asking Angela to stay the night, I ask Edward's parents if it's okay. It is. In fact, they both seem a bit relieved that I do converse with females. With Laurent calling me, Ben wanting my opinion about his gift for Angela, and Skype calls to Emmett (and dad, who is no longer available at random moments), I seem to have left the impression that I only speak to guys. That's probably because I do. Isn't that sad?

My pajama party with Angela is long overdue, and there's so much I want to know about her and share with her. Especially in the light of, well.

I hug the bejesus out of her when she does finally arrive. While she's surprised, she hugs back. She's wearing jeans and a warm-looking sweater, something so utterly normal you could've accused me of wearing the outfit half a year ago. Angela laughs when she sees my bright orange cardigan, short gallus jeans and pantyhose that have penguins on them. I introduce her to Edward's parents, and they already imply I should have my friends over more often. Does it look like I have no friends outside of Edward? It probably does.

I give Angela a tour and let her change into yoga pants before building a blanket-fort for us underneath my bed. I take a lamp, (coach-approved) snacks, Emmett's iPod (yes, I still have it) and Edward's loudspeakers. (Yes, I did ask if I could use them.) When we're nicely settled in the darkness under my bed, I put on some soundtrack music and switch on a lamp. I lay on my side, resting my head against my palm, and Angela mirrors my posture. It's not awkward by any means, but I do spot differences in her mannerisms and mood ever since she began dating Ben. She looks like she's glowing happiness, and I couldn't be happier for her. For a minute, we simply look at each other in the silence.

"I'm totally turning into a sentimental sap, but I've missed you, Angela."

"I've missed you too," she replies, smiling. "You have no idea, really."

"You've changed."

"Look who's talking."

We chuckle.

"So, how've you been? How're things with Ben? And your dad and brothers? What about Ben leaving for college? Do you know where he's going? Do you know where you want to go next year? 'cause I'm thinking, screw this shit, I'm becoming a cleaning lady."

"I take my words back," she replies, smiling. "You haven't changed at all."

I grin. "So how about it?"

She sighs. "I've been… amazing. Ben is… so amazing. Risking our friendship for what we have now? So worth it. You have no idea—or I guess you do." She pauses. "So, you and Laurent, huh?"

"So it appears," I say. "What about your family, though?"

"The usual. Dad's doing his best, and when he doesn't have the time, I look after the boys. Ben's helped me, too. He's making football fanatics out of them. It's all pretty amazing."

I smile. "That's a lot of amazing."

"It is," she replies. Her smile vanishes when she looks at me. "You look exhausted. Have you slept at all?"

"_I_ look exhausted? Have you seen Edward lately? He's only semi-alive."

"You're both pretty out of it," she says, and I shrug. Angela mutters, "And how are… how are things with you? How are you… coping with, you know?"

"My mom? Or dad's leaving?"

"Both, I guess."

"I'm okay."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I'm sorry," I reply. "I'm alright, though."

"I'm worried about you."

"Worried? About _me_? Why?"

"You look so tired. It's like life is being sucked right out of you. Don't get me wrong, you're the same chirpy nutcase I used to know, but you're just, I don't know. Throwing yourself into everything and forgetting to _take_ _care_ of yourself."

"I'm fine. You should worry about Edward. I know I do. The man is trying to kill himself with extra-curriculars."

"Like someone else I know," she says, locking eyes with me. "Seriously, what's up with you two?"

I shrug. John Barry's _Somewhere in Time_ switches to _Gravity_ by Coldplay, and we both stop to listen to it. I lie on my back and look at the striped pattern of timber and mattress above me.

"Angela?"

"Mhmm?"

"How did you know you were in love?"

I glance at her, and she's trying (and failing) to suppress an all-knowing smile.

"I see you're getting pretty serious with Laurent."

"How did you know, though?"

The smug smile is still plastered on her face. "Honestly, I can't remember a time when I wasn't."

Well, that doesn't apply to me at all. I can clearly remember a time when Edward was just a touchy-feely friend. Do I love him, though? I don't know. How does anyone know? Edward never did answer that question for me.

"I guess it's the little things they do. I just… want him to be happy, whatever choices he decides to make about college or anything in life, really."

"And you want to touch each other all the time," I add.

She snickers. "Comes with the territory."

"Isn't that where the territory _begins_? Wanting to touch each other?"

"Maybe," she says. "But it's more than that."

"Like sex?"

She laughs.

Being in a relationship, apparently, has made us regard boys without embarrassment. Half a year ago, it would've been strange discussing this with Angela, but now, we're not even blushing. (Not to say that I won't—I'm sure I will.)

"Angela? Can you not judge me when I tell you something?"

She gives me a sharp look, as if saying it's self-explanatory.

"I'm a shitty person."

"No you're not."

"I am. I really am."

"What makes you think so?"

"I just want you to know I'm aware of this before I go into detail."

"Okay."

I take a deep breath. "I think I'm in love."

She lets out a laugh. "That makes you no more a bad person than jumping off an airplane makes you an eagle. Does Laurent know? He'll be thrilled."

"That's the problem."

"What's the problem?"

"It's not him."

She turns her whole body toward me, rests her head on her forearm and frowns. "I'm confused."

"I have to break up with Laurent, but he's a good person and I don't want to hurt him. I have to, though. But even when I do, I can't—I don't know if it's realistic, you know? I don't want to hurt Laurent, and then I can't get my hopes up for—"

"Wait, wait," she says, placing her flat palm between us. "Slow down. Let me rewind. You're in love with someone, but it's not Laurent?"

"I think so."

"Who is it?"

"Edward."

She shakes her head.

I nod. "I'm afraid so."

"No way. You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"Er, no."

"You're not kidding?"

"Why do you keep saying that? No. I'm serious."

"Wow," she says, still wide-eyed. "Just let me—gather myself."

"Is it really so hard to believe?"

"Yes!" she replies. "When? How? Why didn't I hear about it until now?"

"I don't know. I guess it just… happened. Why's it so hard to believe?"

"You used to dismiss him all the time! Ben and I, we thought he made a move and you didn't feel the same, so you started dating Laurent when the opportunity arrived to make Edward back off."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"That's ridiculous. He's never "made a move," and that's not why Laurent and I started dating."

"Oh, wow," she says, turning back to look at the bottom of my bed. "Wow. I never thought…" She looks back at me. "Wait. Are you and Edward already seeing each other behind Laurent's back?"

"Angela! Of course not!"

"Just had to be sure."

"Okay."

"Have you told him?"

"Who? Edward?"

"Yes."

"Are you kidding me? Of course I haven't."

"You're waiting until you've broken up with Laurent? That's actually a good idea, I think."

She's talking like it's a given I'll run into Edward's arms the moment I'm "free of" Laurent. But I don't think I will. I don't think I _could_.

"No, I mean yes. I'm not even sure it's love, or if it is, I don't know if I want Edward to know."

"Why not?"

"Be real, Angela."

She turns her head to look at me. "Why not?" she repeats. "And none of that out of your league nonsense."

"It's complicated."

"Alright," she says. "Give me a paper and a pen. We'll write down all the pros and cons of telling Edward, then you have it on black and white, and it will cease to be complicated."

I let out a laugh. "You're fucking brilliant."

She grins. I know she doesn't like me cursing as much as I do (I've never heard her utter a single curse word), but she says nothing.

"Bella?" We hear Edward. "Are you home?"

"Come on in!"

We listen to footsteps, but they halt soon. "Where are you?"

"Under the bed!"

A few seconds later, the edge of a blanket rises. A damp-haired and soap-smelling Edward is crouching right above our faces with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"If I ever had any doubts about how odd you are, Bella, they've just left the building."

"Aww, pity," I reply. He chuckles. I'm well-aware that Angela is appraising our every glance.

"What are you doing under there?"

"We're wondering how much vodka would it take to make you agree to be my fuck-buddy," I reply. "Well, that, and we're discussing sex positions."

He locks eyes with me, unblinking, before a sort of scoff-sigh escapes his lips. "Point taken," he says, not smiling. "Your boyfriend is outside."

I smack my head against the timber, and let out a yelp. "Oww."

"Fuck, are you alright?" Edward says, reaching for me. I feel strong hands grip my shoulders. He drags me a few feet toward him, encasing the back of my head in his hands as he brushes aside the hair from where I hit my head. He leans so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. I feel goose bumps on my arms.

"I'm fine. Fine," I answer, grimacing. "Did you say _Laurent_ is here?"

"Do you feel dizzy?"

"I'm fine," I repeat. "Why is Laurent here?"

"You're bleeding. Let me get some disinfectant and peas for you." Edward tenderly brushes my hair back and gets up. His voice is firm. "Wait here."

I don't. I make sure Angela is fine on her own before I run upstairs (ow, ow, ow!) and see Laurent all awkward-looking in the foyer. His face lights up at the sight of me, and I suppress a grimace from all that pain in my head. I do smile, even if it's not the beaming kind.

"Hey, Bella, I was wondering if you would—what happened?"

"Just hit my head," I reply and offer a closed-lips smile. "Sorry I made you wait."

He steps closer, encases my face in his hands and tilts my head toward him. There's no tingling or goose bumps. Just cool hands.

"Yeah, you're bleeding a little," he says, tilts my head back and kisses me. He smiles. "But I think you'll survive." He leans in for another kiss, but a throat clears. A grave-looking Edward is standing behind me, holding a stack of frozen peas. His mom and dad are behind him.

Great.

Like the Swan I am, I flush the color of beetroot.

"Bella, Edward told me you—" Carlisle starts, but the rude girl I am, I don't let him finish.

"I'm fine. Can you give us three minutes?"

"But your head—" Edward starts.

"Three minutes," I say, desperately wanting to roll my eyes. I don't. Instead, I grab my coat. "After that, you can call the ambulance and head over to the cemetery with shovels." Esme and Carlisle chuckle and head to the living room, Edward doesn't seem remotely amused.

When we're outside, Laurent takes my hand and starts to draw circles with his forefinger on my palm. I smile.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted your evening," Laurent says. "I just wanted to see you."

What sane girl wouldn't swoon at that? I smile at him, and he returns it.

"I actually wanted to ask if you'd come to a family dinner with me on Wednesday. The 15th," he says. "Do you mind if that's what we did for Valentine's day? Or do you want something special? I wouldn't mind. I just really want to show you off to my parents." He grins, and through the dull ache of my head, I return a meager smile.

I've let this go too far. I've let him fall too deep. I've let him make too many false assumptions. But after a month and a half, it's clear that the feelings Laurent has for me aren't something I can grow into. I could learn to respect him and love him as a friend (I already do), but I can't force myself to have feelings for him. I can't. I've tried. Boy, how I've tried, but nothing. Not even a hint of a butterfly in my stomach. It's not fair to him—he's a good guy. He deserves better than this.

Am I really considering breaking up with him just before Valentine's Day? It seems I am.

I feel dreadful and it makes me dizzy.

"Laurent," I say with a careful, closed-lips smile. "Could we see each other tomorrow? Or Monday?"

"I can't. I'm sorry." I can hear the regret in hisvoice. "Not even around midnight. I've promised my little sister I'd build her a mini-house for her dolls for this year Valentine's Day. I haven't even started yet."

"Aren't you just a knight in shining armor?" I tease, and he snickers, stealing a kiss.

"What about on Tuesday? Valentine's Day? I'd love to do something with you."

Good God, breaking up with him on Valentine's Day? I want to kill myself.

"Leave it up to me, okay?"

He grins. "Okay. I'll call you."

I nod, he leans in for a kiss, and leaves me in the porch feeling nauseated. But it can't wait. If I wait until Wednesday, it will be beyond cruel to break up with him after I've just met his parents. But I don't want to pull him aside at school and not give him closure. I want him to understand why I'm doing this. He deserves to have closure, and as shitty as it will make me feel, he deserves to hear everything from me. Well, almost everything.

I've barely put away my coat when Edward, silent as the grave, makes me sit in the dining room. He locks eyes with me, searching for something, and I'm pretty sure the doctor-sounding questions that leave his lips are not the (only) questions he wants the answer to. When I touch my temple, it's a bit wet. There's blood on my fingers, and when I feel my jaw drop, Edward raises his eyebrows as if saying, 'I told you.' He says nothing. Carlisle (see? I've finally learned his name!) checks on me, too, and repeats questions about nausea and such. For a brief moment, I see him glance at both of us, thoughtfully, but when he makes eye contact with me, he offers a polite smile and leaves us.

The way Edward brushes my hair aside feels like a caress, and I close my eyes. I feel guilt. So much guilt. If Edward's touches meant nothing, I wouldn't—but they do, and I do. Why does Edward's touch mean the world to me? Why couldn't Laurent's? Why can't I choose the one to fall in love with? The world would be a much happier place if we could.

The funny thing about me being apparently oblivious is that I'm not. Not as much as I used to be. Because, surprising as it may be, I've learned to find hope in Edward's actions not because of how they differ from Laurent's, but because of how similar they are. I'm not saying I think Edward is in love with me, no. Maybe not. Not yet, maybe never. But the way he sometimes follows me with his eyes, wraps an arm around my shoulder, rubs absent-minded circles on my skin that makes me want to crawl into his lap and stay there—all of that is surprisingly similar to how Laurent treats me.

Not the same but similar.

But my reaction to him? Completely different. Edward and I, we've barely hugged since Laurent and I started dating. We're close, but we're not as close as we used to be. That was the inevitable part of our friendship that we both knew had to go. I already feel too much guilt from not being able to return Laurent's affections. I couldn't sleep next to Edward, innocent as it may be, and spend the day with Laurent. I couldn't.

I look up at Edward. He's squinting, pressing his lips together as he pours hydrogen peroxide to cotton and it bubbles on my head, I'm sure. It feels cold, and I grip his knee.

"I'm sorry," I say, seeing that his eyes fall on my face. I swallow, and when he makes eye contact, I repeat. "I'm so sorry, Edward."

He's puzzled, but even more so when we both get up. I grip the pack of peas and lean in for a hug. A real hug. We haven't had one of those for over a month. A hug that makes me hide my face in the crook of his neck, breathe him in and press my lips against his collarbone. He lets out a low, barely-hearable grunt but slips his hand around my waist, tightens his hold and hides his (much higher) face behind my ear. I feel his heart-beat quicken and his scruffy cheek against my neck. I sniff the smell of his anti-dandruff shampoo. It smells like home.

"What's this about?" Edward whispers, letting his nose play with my earlobe. His voice lowers. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," I mutter.

Edward relaxes.

"What are you apologizing for?" he asks, still not letting me go. "Accidents happen."

For a good half a minute, I don't reply, I just refuse to let him go and—clearly confused by my sudden need for intimacy—he embraces my hug. I'm not going to say or do anything before I've broken up with Laurent. But I've missed Edward as a friend. So much.

"I miss you."

His arms tighten around me, and he almost lifts me up, that's how tight his arms get around me. "I'm right here," he says with a broken edge to his voice. He clears his throat and repeats. "I'm right here."

When I open my eyes, I notice that Angela has climbed upstairs and is looking at me rather smugly. Edward and I break apart, I kiss his cheek to thank him, and when Angela and I head downstairs, she mumbles a long, smug, uncharacteristic, "Mhmmm."

"Shut it, Webber."

She laughs, we crawl back under my bed—yes, I'm still balancing a pack of peas on my head—and there's a paper and pen between us. She rests her head on the back of her hand and stares at me, grinning like a maniac.

"What's that Cheshire grin supposed to mean?"

"I can't believe I never noticed."

"What?"

"You're so _obvious_."

My heart nearly skips a beat. "That is not what I want to hear, you know."

"I'm sorry. But you are."

"Do you think he's noticed? That's disastrous."

"That's the thing." Her grin only widens. "I don't think he even _suspects_. I don't think anyone does. I didn't. It didn't even _occur_ to me."

I let out a breath.

"Look, if you two were books, he'd be a hard-cover best-seller from the 19th century."

"And I'd be a coverless 99 cent book printed on recycled paper? Gee. Thanks, Angela."

She chuckles. "No, if he's a hard-cover best-seller, you're a laptop. An expensive Apple with three passwords."

"So much subtle symbolism. Edward has a Mac. So you don't think he's noticed?"

"No," she says. "But you should've seen his face when you kissed his cheek. I'm pretty sure he would've died to have his wicked way with you. Or to kiss you properly."

"I call bullshit. You should know better than to get my hopes up. Now, let's get to that pros and cons list. I want that shit in writing."

She laughs. "I've missed you too, Bella."

: :

The beginning of the next week flies by under the looming clouds of Valentine's Day. Or Single Awareness Day. I'm in a silent mood (with a bump on my head), which—because it is so unlike me—makes everyone, including Laurent, suspect that I've caught a cold or something. I often catch Edward's eyes on me, and he's got that impenetrable expression, semi-grave and bubbling with hurt yet absolutely approachable to the rest of the world. He stops making eye contact as soon as Laurent tries to get my attention, and I feel heavy. Guilty and heavy. I hope he doesn't think I've discarded our friendship for a relationship. Maybe that's the hurt in his eyes. Heck if I knew.

By the end of Drama on Monday evening, I've made my decision. There's no other way but for me to break up with Laurent, regardless of what I might want or get with Edward.

That's why, the first time ever for me to be in a relationship with a boy on Valentine's Day, when every other couple is having romantic dinner, I've convinced Laurent to take us to see the Pacific Ocean, just outside of Forks.

We sit, side by side, on the edge of some old ruins of a church. Even with a coat of mine underneath me, I can feel the rough pattern of bricks. Soft snow is falling on us (and on Laurent's grandpa's car.) It's cold, but the fading horizon of the ocean is a sight to behold. We're both wrapped in all kinds of woolen clothing, and my fingers are intertwined with Laurent's inside his sleeve. My other (mitten-clad) hand is holding a jar with raisins.

I'm gathering my guts.

"Honey?"

Strange. Just… strange.

"Yeah?"

"When did you start doing this?" he asks, stealing a sweet (literally) kiss. It's familiar and it's nice. Not butterfly-y, but nice. "You always bring me to these places."

"When I was twelve and Emmett thirteen. I wasn't allowed to take the bus alone, so I forced my brother to go."

"What did you do when you got there, though? How did you find these places?"

"We got off the bus and walked. It's not hard to find places to think when everyone's trying to avoid thinking."

"That's deep."

"What can I say? I'm deep."

He chuckles. "But what did you do when you got here?"

I shrug. "Kept on walking."

He stares at me, and I raise my head to look at him. His white hat that compliments his darkness seems to hover above his smile. Late at night, I often feel like I'm hanging out with his smile. A perpetual, floating smile.

I've learned about him. What makes him tick, what has shaped his character, what he values and how he sees the world. Our world views are a bit different, and we argue, but he always makes light of the situation. We have a great time together, no doubt about it.

"Laurent?"

"Honey?"

Still strange.

"Why me?"

"You mean why do I want to be with you?"

That sounds… long-term. Okay. I can deal.

"Yeah."

"Well, other than the fact that I think you're beautiful," he says, and I don't have to look at him to know he's smiling. It's in his voice. "I didn't think I needed a reason. You're intriguing. Unlike anyone I've ever met. I think we've had this talk."

"See, I don't get that. I know aesthetics is a matter of opinion, but our view of what's pretty is still shaped by the opinions around us. How did that not scare you away?"

He laughs. "You're talking like everyone spoke shit about you."

"Welcome to my world, dude."

"Never call me dude again, honey. It sounds wrong."

"Duuuude."

He grins, shaking his head. "So."

"So."

"Honestly, I thought you'd turned them all down. Ergo, you'd turn me down. That's what took me so long."

I air-quote. "Them all?"

"You know." He shrugs. "Other guys."

I snort-chuckle. "There's probably some dating rule against me saying this not to make myself look undesirable or whatever, but I meant it when I said you were the first guy who's ever been interested."

The grin could split his face. "More power to me." He leans in for a kiss, and a moment later, I'm right next to him, straddling the brick wall, letting him kiss me. It's like I had the worst case of short-term memory, it's like I'm hoping I'll grow into the feelings he's already feeling, it's like I'm wrapped in guilt because I don't feel as much as he does. I probably never will.

I need to do this quickly. Like a band aid.

He pulls back and lowers his eyes, a bit nervous. I can see the resolve in his eyes, I can see the affection before he says the words, but they still paralyze me.

"I love you," he mutters, letting out a nervous laugh as if he couldn't help himself. He raises his eyes. "I love you, Bella. You're so—you're so free, you know? And I don't care if you're not there yet, I can wait. And not just physically. Whenever you're ready."

I can feel his sigh more than hear it, but that familiar nervous smile from our first date still covers his lips. He brings his face closer to mine so that he's touching my nose with his.

"You're it for me, Bella," he says, stealing a brief kiss before he pulls me to his side and makes sure I'm warm.

_How_ do you break up with someone after those words?

How _do_ you break up with someone after those words?

God, I'm such an asshole.

Why couldn't my life be like a crappy movie about high-school? The jock you're dating (Laurent) is supposed to turn out to be an asshole, so that a knight in shining armor (Edward) could come and save you and admit his eternal love for you.

I have none of that.

I shouldn't have let this get this far, not because I couldn't figure out my lack of feelings sooner, but because I will hurt him too much. This would be so much easier if he were an asshole. If he dated me to get into my pants or something. But he isn't. He's so nice and perpetually happy and we're so compatible in our interests, but I can't. It's either I break his heart, causing immense pain short-term, or I pretend to possess feelings that I don't and suppress my long-term happiness, causing dull but long-term pain.

Lose-lose.

"Laurent, I—"

"You don't have to say it, honey. It's alright."

"Can you just—hear me out? I don't want you to freak out, okay?"

"Oh-kay."

"You're an amazing man, you know? You've taught me so much about relationships and life, and I know I'll be the bad girl in your autobiography. But I don't think I'm the peanut butter to your jelly."

His smile falters, but only slightly.

"I'm allergic to peanuts."

"Ergo, my wording," I reply, offering an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear I never led you on for the sake of it. Never. I guess I really did hope I'd start to see in you what you seem to see in me, over time."

He pulls back, and even in the darkness, I can sense the hurt in his posture and silence. After a half a minute of awkward staring, he leans in for a slight, barely-there kiss.

"So when I do this," he says and kisses me. "You feel… nothing?"

I nod. It's a sad, brutal truth.

His shoulders slump but I feel his unblinking eyes on me, and I'm ready to a face an angry man whose dreams have just been broken. I'm ready to face the fact that he'd leave me here, sitting on these old ruins, to my own means. Instead, he silently gets up, even offers a smile. It's nothing I expected.

"It's over one AM. I'll get you home."

I wrap the coat underneath me, and we sit in the car. You know, in a Harlequin novel, this would be the place for a "deathly" silence. It is not. He makes easy, trivial conversation, and I return it. He turns on the radio. Quite a few times, he smiles, but he's a lousy actor, and I can see that I've broken him. I feel dreadful. I didn't want this to happen, and he definitely didn't deserve this to happen.

When we're outside of Edward's place, he turns off the engine far enough from the house so it wouldn't wake Edward's parents. It's what he usually does.

Suddenly, he lets out a somewhat hysterical, unexpected chuckle.

"Do you know what Edward hates the most about me?"

I shake my head.

"It's that I'm actually a decent fellow. He was ready to sweep you off your feet, waiting for me to make the wrong move. I think he was actually more disappointed that I treated you well than he would've been if I was an asshole."

After a few seconds, his face sobers. It's borderline furious, and I'm ready for whatever he's going to yell at me. We've all got our breaking point. That doesn't make him a bad person. But he wipes his face, as if to clear it, and smiles. It truly is a perpetual smile if he can smile in a situation like this. He doesn't smile with his whole face, neither does it really reach his eyes, but it's the _attempt_ that makes him who he is.

"So, this is really it."

I nod.

"I'm sorry, Laurent. You have every right to hate me."

"I wish I could. I guess I've… I don't know. I wouldn't say I've known, but… it's not as unexpected as it should be." He sighs. "A guy could hope, right?" A weak smile.

"I know it means nothing now, but I don't regret that we tried it out. You taught me a lot."

He squeezes my hand and opens his mouth, but closes it. Nothing comes out. Instead, he swallows and nods. I'm not a mind-reader, but I'm pretty sure he's not as tough as he's trying to show. I know he'll wait until I've crawled into my room, so I take my other coat and say goodbye. When I'm half-way to the house, Laurent rolls down the passenger-side window.

"Bella."

"Yes?"

"You're worth it," he says. "And if Edward doesn't see that, I can take him, alright?"

Not until when he's rolled up his window and I've pushed mine open and hopped to the basement do his words really sink in. I can hear his car pull away, leaving the silence of a winter's night. I push my window closed and lock it. There's a human-shaped line of pillows and clothes under my blanket, and I put everything in their place. It's the oldest prank in the book, going to sleep early and making your shape out of pillows when you're sneaking out.

I clean the floor from melting snow, change my clothes, and lie above my covers. I can't believe I've done it. I broke up with him. I feel lighter, a mixture of excitement and regret. And he took it surprisingly well. I always thought that teenage break-ups were, indeed, what my dad seemed to think. But maybe, if you have the right person and you make enough sense and he sees your logic and cares about you, there's a way to be human about it.

That is not to say I underestimate how much I just hurt Laurent. I don't. But how amazing is it of him to think I'm worth it? Whatever the 'it' means?

I can't sleep, so I don't. I stand, enter the parlor, and see Edward's door, slightly ajar. Just enough for me to see a beam of light create a dust wall in the parlor. You know, the wall of light that lets you put your fingers through it and only see a piece of your skin. It's like a dust wall from childhood, the dust that makes you see the air. The air you don't think about. But it's there. It's always there. But only because of that dust can I see it.

There's something magical about it, and I don't know what. I know I should have known better, but I didn't, and I don't regret my decision to try it out with Laurent. He taught me a lot. He let me see a lot. He let me see things I couldn't understand were there, and he didn't even know it. I'm sorry I couldn't give him that part of me he needed, but it's no longer mine to give. I needed him to teach me that.

I can only hope I taught him something, too.

Barefoot, I curl my cold toes into the carpet as I peek into Edward's room, just to see if he's, you know, masturbating. I'll leave him alone if he is. But he's not. He's sprawled on his king size bed, sideways, reading what appears to be a Stephen King novel with two men fighting on a beige cover.

It's almost two AM.

Ever so slightly, I push the door and knock on it. He inhales and drops his book before his eyes land on me. Edward sits. I stand there, wordless, with my toes curled into the carpet, watching him with my bits of insight into life that attached themselves on me without my consent. Edward is in grey pajama bottoms, bare-chested, letting his bare feet slip to the ground as he turns to me. His hair is up. It's a disheveled, beautiful mess. It's a lot shorter now, too, shorter than mine.

"Did you just get back?" he asks. I twiddle with the edge of my T-shirt and give him a closed-lips smile. I nod.

"Are you alright?"

I shake my head.

"Did something happen with you and Laurent?"

His voice is lower, grim and guarded.

I don't nod. I don't shake my head, either, I just stare at him, at his awake yet disheveled self, his (seemingly) permanent concern for my well-being and the clear affection in his voice. I think I've always seen it. I'm not sure I'm ready to look beyond that and risk what we have, but I can't deny there might be something. Maybe not. But maybe, just maybe, there is.

That is a bold thought, and I wouldn't dare to think it were it not for what Laurent taught me.

Silently, I sit right next to him. I put my head on his shoulder. I feel his heartbeat.

"You're starting to freak me out," he says, wrapping a hesitant arm around my shoulders.

Ever since Laurent and I started dating, my friendship with Edward has been wrapped in a cocoon, waiting for the right time. It's been a fragile month and a half. We're still best friends, sometimes too busy in the evenings to even be home at the same time, studying and exchanging bullshit thoughts and arguing about nonsense when we are. Life has changed, and yet, I feel like the month and a half never existed at all. He's still here for me, and that? That's invaluable.

"I just want to be held," I mutter, right against his neck. He kisses the top of my head, and we settle in the middle of the bed where Edward lies on his back, and I'm settled on the crook of his arm. It's not beyond the borders of friendship, but it's intimate. For a few minutes, we look at each other.

"Is it okay that I came to bother you? You can continue reading if you want."

"It's more than okay, Bella." He offers a sad smile. "I just hope the reason for it is not that you were hurt."

I hum. I still feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, and the warmth of his skin under my cheek and fingertips. I run my finger across his skin, and the three moles that form a line on his collar bone. I think I feel goose-bumps on his forearm.

"I should put a shirt on."

"I don't mind. If that's what you mean."

He stands to throw on a random T-shirt lying on a chair. He's back barely five seconds later.

"It's not fair to your boyfriend."

Except that I no longer have one. But he's right. I didn't understand it at first, but one of the many unspoken rules for a relationship is: if you're unsure whether or not what you're doing is wrong, imagine having your significant other in the room. If you're comfortable with them watching you, you're fine. If not, you're walking on thin ice. Edward taught me this. There is also an unsaid rule about the length of hugs that remain within the borders of friendship, and we haven't crossed it since the beginning of January (except for that one time a few days ago). It wouldn't have been fair.

But I've missed Edward. He's been right here, and yet, I've missed him more than I've been able to admit to myself. I _miss_ him, miss him.

I kiss the side of his neck before I start to draw patterns on his shirt-clad chest for no particular reason other than it's incredible to be so close to him again. He tightens his hold on me.

"Do you want me to take you back to your room after you fall asleep?"

"No."

"Bella."

"No, it's just— oh. Are you sleepy?" I ask. It's two AM. He's perpetually sleep-deprived and I'm keeping him from what he needs most—a good night's sleep. I get up from his arms. "I don't have to be here. You can sleep."

"Bella? Bella," he repeats, catching my wrist before he pulls me back. He's smiling, but it's the same sad, lost, exhausted smile. "I usually fall asleep after four. There's no chance in hell I'll fall asleep so early."

Early? Yeah. Edward is not normal.

He settles me against his side again, and I don't dare to move.

"Would you mind if we just… talked? Is that okay?" I ask.

He offers a smile and turns off the lights. There's some light coming from the window, but it's very faint. We push ourselves under covers, and he now holds on to me like his life depended on it. I'm pushed against his neck. I breathe on it. His arm is wrapped around my waist and his thumb is drawing lazy circles against my back.

"What happened?" he whispers against my ear. "Did he—hurt you?"

I nod.

But I hurt him too. I'm hurt because I hurt him and because relationships are confusing and you want to do what's best and sometimes you still hurt a person who doesn't deserve to be hurt. It's confusing. But at least I think he understood. It was for the best.

I can feel his whole body stiffen next to mine. I hear the pain in his voice. "Were you… intimate?"

I chuckle, and it shifts the mood for a second. "It's okay. You can say it."

"You had sex?"

"No," I answer. "We never did… cross that line."

Or any preceding lines, for that matter.

He exhales in a way that makes his whole body go limp, that's how relieved he is.

"Never?" He repeats, like a wish or a whisper. I nod, and he squeezes me so tightly against him it's like he wants to crawl underneath my skin.

"Why are you so relieved that the man just wouldn't put out? Less pleasure for me."

The sound he makes is between a snicker and a snort. It feels loud in the dark room.

"God, I've missed you," he says. I relish it all, the warmth of his body and the security his arms make me feel.

"I've missed you, too."

"Did you have a fight?"

"Not exactly."

"What happened?"

I don't even know why, but I don't answer him. I sigh. "How's Rosalie?"

Her surgery has been postponed for nearly six weeks. The first time I didn't hear from her for six days, I was a wreck, sure that this was it. I was going to get an email saying that she's passed away. I prepared to tell Edward his mom is dead. But that didn't happen: Rosalie simply didn't have internet at first where they moved. I made her promise to always find a way to contact me when she doesn't have internet.

"She seems happy," he says and hesitates for a moment. "Thank you for being her friend. She doesn't have that many people. You have no idea how much she appreciates that."

"She's not a charity case. I love speaking to her."

He smiles against my forehead. "That's what makes you so amazing."

"Keep the compliments coming, I'm all ears."

He laughs. We talk for a while. We fall asleep just before five AM. For the first time since I started to work out, I sleep in and don't show myself to the coach in the morning. Instead, at seven AM, I tear myself away from Edward's arms (replacing myself with a pillow) and place a kiss on his forehead. He moans, searching for me with his hands before he hugs the pillow tightly against him. Cutest boy ever.

: :

Wednesday passes in a haze. Laurent hasn't told anyone we broke up, and neither have I, so people are curious why Laurent is suddenly hanging out with the guys in his class. Edward follows me with his eyes, clearly puzzled by what has happened, but I explain nothing to nobody. I'm tired yet happy, and when I hear one of Alice's friends, Jane, make a joke about my violet cardigan with a Scottish flag on it, I literally laugh into her face. I raise my hand, twiddling with my fingers.

"One of these is for you, can you guess which one?"

None of them gets my 'fuck you' joke, but it lifts my mood. During the day, I make a discovery, something that I've never either seen or that hasn't been there before: people know me. Students seem to think I'm the fighter against the new popular girls, a fighter standing with the judged ones and the minorities. Everyone comes to chat. Sure, some of them just want to get into Edward's pants, but still. It's odd that my subtle fight with Alice has made people choose sides.

For example, when Alice or one of her friends makes a particularly nasty joke about my clothes, my classmates make it a point to come and compliment (really loudly) my clothing choice. This week, it has become a 'thing.' Especially when I'm wearing something absolutely hideous.

On Wednesday evening, it becomes clear Thursday will be a snow day. Everyone's ecstatic. I ask Edward's parents if it's okay for me to spend the night at home, and even though it takes a while to convince them, I do. Emmett and Jasper have convinced Edward to go out, after all. (Not that Edward's parents knew anything about that.)

I really need this evening to myself, just to… think things through. I listen to music, draw a little, read one of Edward's Stephen King novels and try to make sense of this world. That is until, just after I've brushed my teeth, there's a knock on the door. It's way past midnight.

"Bella," Edward slurs, locks eyes with me and smiles. It's a lazy, careless smile. He keeps a firm grip on the side of our porch to appear to be as sober as possible, but sober he is not. He's clad in dark jeans and his pea coat, with a hand in his pocket. Cautiously, I walk next to him. He wavers but opens his arms for me to step into them. He frowns when I don't—I see Emmett, who has gotten himself drunk and is currently laying on his stomach on our driveway, patting the pavement.

"Bella!" he yells. "Bella! We… I got Ed—Edward _wasted_!"

"I saw."

His frown is child-like. "You mad?"

I can't help but smile at him. "No, Emmett."

He shakes his head, back and forth, a stupid grin on his face. I hear Jasper sigh next to me. He's the only one who appears to be somewhat coherent. It's a situation we've been in before, and when Jasper and I look at each other, he knows what we need to do. He helps me take Emmett to his bedroom. I force as much water into Emmett as he can take, but when he falls asleep mid-talk, I remove his shoes.

"Jasper?"

He nods. "I'll take your room."

I can't sleep next to someone vomiting their guts out in the bathroom.

"Thank you."

For a brief moment, we just look at each other. It's an odd relationship we have. I'd like to think I know him pretty well: somewhat geeky, loves video games, only child, plays football with Emmett, and very modest about everything he does. But we rarely talk. He doesn't talk with a lot of people, to think of it. He always goes to the parties, but claims he doesn't trust himself to get drunk. What he thinks he'll do, I'll probably never know.

I turn to leave.

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"You remember the old saying."

"What saying?"

"A drunk man's actions are sober man's thoughts."

"Err, I don't think I do."

He smiles. "Think about it. It'll come to you."

I head downstairs and prepare the couch for Edward to sleep on.

He is sitting on the arm of our couch, struggling to tear off his sweatshirt and T-shirt together, but instead, his clothes (inside out) hang from his head as he grunts and curses. He looks like a helpless child. I step right in front of him to free his head, and blindly, he reaches out for me and grips my left elbow while the other slides around my waist.

"Bell-uh," he slurs, and I don't have to see his smile to know it's there. "Bell-uh." He starts to rub his hand on the place where my waist dips, up and down and up again. It tickles. Meanwhile, I manage to take off the shirt he struggled with, and suddenly, he's grinning at me, all drunken-haze and droopy eyelids. For a second, he watches his hand on my waist, and then his locks me in his arms, rubbing my back under my clothes. He pulls me to him, makes me stand between his legs, and suddenly, his fingers close around the hemline of my shirt. He glances at me and gives me a childish smile as if trying to test waters to see if I'll let him take off my shirt. He's an adorable drunk.

"Yes?" he says, all wide-eyed and bright teeth, starting to raise my shirt.

"No," I reply, wrapping my hands around his. His face falls, but I kiss his cheek. "You're drunk, Edward. I don't want you to regret anything."

He shakes his head with such violence he gives himself a headache and stops. Then, he tears off his jeans, and as if his abdomen wasn't enough a distraction, now he's in his boxer-briefs. God help me. He gets up, all wide-eyed and adorable, and wraps his arms around my waist again, except this time, he's half-naked. Edward nips the skin below my ear, drawing his nose back and forth, and encases my head in his hands. Having tilted my head back, he stares at my mouth as if he's in a desert and it's the only source of water.

I am being seduced by my almost naked and very drunk best friend.

And he's not the one who needs help.

"Edward, I put some clean sheets on the couch. I think you should sleep it off."

It takes him five seconds to focus his eyes on mine, but then they flicker back on my mouth, and suddenly, he's a vulnerable little boy. He frowns.

"You don't… want to," he says, sad-sounding and surprisingly coherent. I let out a laugh.

"I do," I say, and his face lights up like a Christmas tree. He leans in again, breathing his booze-smelling breath on my face, but I turn my face away. He presses his lips on the side of mine before pulling away. He avoids my eyes.

"But you… won't… let me," he says, taking his hands from my neck as he sits, holds his head in his hands and eyes his lap. "You don't want me." He sounds earnest and heart-broken and childish at the same time, it's almost like I'm depriving him of his deepest wish. That can't be the case. He's just a very seductive drunk. An adorable, seductive drunk. I'm sure he won't even remember this tomorrow.

"Edward." I sit next to him, and he looks up at me with pained eyes. "You're drunk. If you wanted this when you're sober, I'd kiss you silly. But you've never said that's what you want, and I don't want to take advantage of you when you're not coherent."

"Kiss you silly." The edge of his lips twitches as he repeats my words. "I want to kiss you silly." The slightest of smiles widens, and a moment later, he's grinning. Sooner than I can react, he has pinned me under him on the couch, he's rubbing circles on my cheeks with his thumb, and placing little maddening kisses on my face. Edward keeps his weight on his elbows before he puts his knees on either side of my hips and pulls my face toward him, searching my eyes. His eyes are glazed. Having leaned against me, he breathes on my ear.

"Can I kiss you, love?" he whispers, rubbing his nose against my hair. "I just want to kiss you."

He hovers above my face, his eyes filled with so much affection and adoration (and inebration) the task feels impossible. But I manage to utter a few words.

"Edward, stop."

As if burned, he jumps to the other side of the couch, and I almost snicker at his antics before I see his eyes. There's so much hurt in them. He leans his head against the armrest, avoids my eyes and starts to draw patterns on the blanket I brought him. It strikes me how fragile Edward is. Just when I figure out how to make him go to sleep, he raises his pained eyes.

"But your nest?"

I let out an involuntary laugh. "My _nest_?"

I don't think I realized how drunk he was before he started to rant about random nonsense.

He nods and starts rubbing the middle of his chest. "You won't let me."

I kneel on the floor in front of him. "I won't let you what?"

"Make _my_ nest."

He points at my breasts, and I laugh. He seems so hurt by my laughter that I stop.

"Can I hold you?" he asks, shyly. I sigh and nod. I already figured he'd probably chase me to dad's bedroom and I'd wake up cuddling with him, so I take off my (only) jeans and let him wrap his arms around me. I pull a blanket on us. Edward starts to cover my neck with kisses, and I can feel his arousal against my back, but I ignore it. He keeps asking me if I'll let him make a nest. His whole body relaxes when I agree, and within a few seconds, he's asleep.

I stay up for a while, feeling his heartbeat. When I'm sure he's fallen asleep, I press a simple kiss on his lips. His arms tighten around me.

"I love you."


	17. But I Thought I Was Bulletproof

"Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result—eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly—in you." — Bill Bryson, _A Short History of Nearly Everything_

: :

I wake up to a buzzing sound: Edward's pocket is lit up. My first attempt to reach his iPhone in the darkness proves unsuccessful because even in his sleep, Edward is unwilling to let go of me. (Not that this is any news, mind you.) During my next attempt, I manage to grip Edward's belt and pull his jeans to me. I decline his dad's call and see five unanswered calls and three text messages, the more desperate-sounding ones from his mom and more concrete from his dad.

The last one reads, 'Your mom is ready to call the police and there's only so long I can assure her you must be okay. Please let us know where you are ASAP.'

'Hi Carlisle, this is Bella. Edward is okay. He crashed on our couch. Emmett and Jasper are here as well. Everything's alright.'

Immediately, he texts back.

'Thank you, Bella. I let Esme know he's safe. Make sure he drinks plenty of water. Good night.'

'Thanks. I will. Night!'

Confused, I put the phone down. Somehow, Edward's dad either knows or suspects that Edward has been drinking, but I'm fairly sure this is knowledge he will not share with Esme. If I've learned anything at all during my stay with Edward's family, it's that Esme is often purposefully kept out of the loop. Not out of menace or underestimation of her reaction, but out of care for her. She's prone to overreact when it comes to Edward. Or me. That's probably why she still has illusions about Edward's virginity or his consumption of alcohol. I don't think Edward gets himself drunk too often, but Carlisle's reaction tells me it's not the first time.

I wonder what he makes out of me answering his texts at three AM on Edward's phone. That is, until a few minutes later, Edward's phone buzzes again.

'And please, please be safe.'

He thinks we're about to have sex? Alright-y then.

The next time I wake up, I'm covered in goose bumps when I feel warm and wet kisses on my collarbone. It tickles. Edward is squeezing my breast over my bra and letting his other hand roam around my stomach. He lets out a groan as he nips and sucks on my neck and tries to get rid of my T-shirt, but when I take a good look at his face, I can see that his eyes are closed.

"Edward?" I whisper. He sighs, continues to suck on my neck and starts to dry-hump the side of my hip. "Edward?"

He's _asleep_.

Lovely.

When I feel his hand go lower (on his body, not mine) and rub himself over his boxer-briefs, I let out an involuntary laugh. His hand slips inside his boxer-briefs, and I just know I have to awaken him. I lean closer to his ear.

"Edward," I say, no longer whispering. "I understand why you'd want to masturbate in the morning, but I think you should know you are not, in fact, dreaming. That's not a talking pillow you're holding."

His lips detach from my neck. I can spot the exact moment he comes to. His whole body goes rigid, he blinks and makes eye contact. Immediately, he shuts his eyes and grunts. For a good fifteen seconds, he tries to get used to the light, but just by looking at his face, I know he's having one heck of a hangover. I hope he's not about to vomit on me.

He locks eyes with me, but I try to make light of the situation. "I take it you had a good dream?" Meaningfully, I glance at the hand in his boxers. "By all means, don't stop on my account."

He blinks at me, lowers his eyes to see what I'm talking about, and his ears redden. So do his neck and chest. He locks eyes with me, and he's petrified. He lets my breast go as if burnt, takes his hand off his, khkm, cock, and plants himself face down on the couch.

"Jesus," he groans, mortified, and holds onto his head. "I'm so sorry, Bella."

I decide that this is the perfect opportunity to have mind-blowing fun with him. So I lie next to him, wrap an arm around his back and breathe in his ear.

"You weren't so shy last night," I say, pretending to be hurt. "Or did that mean nothing to you?"

He freezes, and slowly turns his head to look at my face. Unblinking, I make my best face of 'wide doe eyes' (though we all know I do not have doe eyes) and stare at him. If I thought he looked petrified before, that has nothing on the face of sheer horror on his face, wide panicked eyes and mouth agape, as he digests this news.

"La—last night?" he croaks and clears his throat. "Did I… did we… no, no, no."

"You don't remember?" I ask, pretending to be oh-so-heart-broken.

His Adam's apple moves as he glances at my state of undress (he can't see that I'm wearing shorts under the blanket) and raises his eyes to look at me. He blinks with his glazed eyes.

"Did I… force myself on you?" he mutters. He's barely audible and there's pain in his voice.

"No," I reply, and his whole body relaxes. "You were the perfect gentleman."

"But I… I took your… your…" There's gut-wrenching concern in his voice as he puts his hand against my jaw and kisses my forehead. "Bella," he whispers.

"It's a two-way street. You can't take something I'm not ready to give."

There's so much regret in his voice. He grimaces and swallows, letting his eyes linger on my body until he whispers, "Did I hurt you? Tell me I wasn't… rough with you. Please."

"It was perfect."

He continues to cringe and hides his eyes behind his palm.

"Was it good?"

"Trying to get an ego-boost, are we?" I tease.

"No, no, no," he backtracks. "I mean… I mean…"

"I know what you mean. Of course it was good, it was you."

I smile. His face relaxes somewhat, but he's thoughtful, staring off into the distance before focusing his eyes on me.

"Did we use a condom? I've never had sex without it."

I shake my head. I don't think I can hold back my laughter anymore, but somehow, I do. I want to see what he does next. And he doesn't disappoint. He looks at me with his obvious headache and glazed eyes, wraps both of his arms around me, hugging me with all his might as he kisses my forehead and breathes on my ear. "I'm so sorry," he mutters with a rough edge to his voice. "I'm so sorry. This couldn't have been pleasant with me drunk. I probably slobbered all over you. I just… I'm sorry. You deserve so much better."

The staircase creaks, and Emmett stands there, surprisingly coherent-looking. He grins, motioning at us. "Oh, by all means, continue. Just let me go get popcorn."

"Jesus," Edward mutters, hiding his face in my neck.

"Though, Bella," Emmett says. "Just so you know, Edward is probably sad he can't remember deflowering you. It doesn't bother him you had sex, it's just that he can't remember it. Am I right or am I right?"

Edward's ears feel hot, and he's still hiding his head next to my neck. I wink at Emmett who laughs but then grimaces. Hung-over.

"Well-played, Bella. Just put the poor guy out of his misery," he says, heading to the kitchen.

Edward peeks at me, grimacing, and I flush from his body heat. He frowns. "My misery?"

I laugh and twiddle with his hair. "Nothing happened." I kiss his cheek, preparing to get up.

He grips my wrist, pulling me back. "Wait, what?"

"Nothing happened," I repeat, smiling at him. "I was just messing with you."

Just like yesterday, he pins me under him, with both of his arms and legs on either side of me, and his arousal right against my crotch. I moan. Edward pants against my neck.

"So you want to have angry sex with me now? That would be rather complicated because I'm on my period." I flush, but damn it, all inhibitions are gone anyway. "So you might want to let me go to the bathroom."

His mouth twitches, and I just know he's not angry. "That was cruel," he whispers against my ear. "I thought…"

"I know. I'm sorry, it was too tempting." I start to move out from under him, but he stops me.

"One more thing."

"What?"

"I still seem to remember…"

"Yes, you wanted to tear my clothes off, and yes, you wanted to kiss me."

His ears redden. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"And you…"

"I stopped you. As adorable as you are when you're drunk, I'd rather not take advantage of my best friend when he's not in control of himself."

He opens his eyes and lets his face hover right above my mine. He's so clearly struggling to keep a grimace off his face due to what is a pleasant hangover, I'm sure. There's a glint in his eye, but he hesitates as if he's suddenly shy. "And what if… what if said best friend wouldn't mind being taken advantage of?" His ears redden further.

"I'd tell said best friend to get himself a dog."

I kiss his neck and crawl out from under him. I really do need the bathroom.

"You're evil, Isabella Swan!" he shouts after me, but groans shortly thereafter.

"Ten points for Gryffindor!"

When I've changed into my jeans and enter the kitchen, Jasper and Emmett are sitting around the table, with Emmett face-palming from all the light and Jasper teasing him about it.

"Where's Edward?"

"He took one gulp of water and boom! Shit just hit the fan," Emmett says, groaning. "I wouldn't bet on seeing him for a while."

"Gotcha."

I wish I could handle people vomiting, but I can't, so I'm not going to search for Edward to help him vomit. Trust me, I'd be retching too.

A few hours later, when I'm back from grocery shopping, I fry eggs for myself and Jasper while Emmett groans and nibbles at pickles. It's past two when Edward emerges, looking pale-white but serious and sober. He rubs his neck and clears his throat.

"Bella, can I have a word?"

Emmett whistles. I follow Edward to the couch where linens and blankets are neatly folded under the pillows. I start to sit, but Edward stops me. He sighs, rubs his neck, and starts to play with the hemline of my sleeve. He does not look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "For how I behaved. I just wanted to make sure I didn't… ruin our friendship or, or… traumatize you."

Once again, I hear my own laughter as if I weren't the source. I stop when I realize I am.

I smile. "You didn't."

"But I—" he starts, and clears his throat. He lifts his hand and touches my neck, and he does it so tenderly I just have to close my eyes not to jump him and kiss him silly. After a few seconds, I open my eyes, and I see him staring at his fingers on my neck. He raises his eyes, vulnerable and apologetic. "Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"I've, uh." The tips of his ears flush. "I've marked you."

My entire face reddens as I take a few steps backwards to see myself from the tiny mirror in our living room, and sure enough, Edward certainly enjoyed himself kissing my neck. Frankly, I'm surprised Emmett didn't tease the hell out of this situation, but maybe he's too hungover. Yeah. I think that's it.

I grin, raise myself on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. "Don't over-analyze. You did nothing I wasn't comfortable with, okay?"

He pulls me into a hug, and I feel the smile on his lips. "So you're comfortable with—" He places a gentle kiss on my neck, one that breaks my skin in goose bumps. "—this?"

I flush, but before I can confirm the butterflies in my stomach, Edward backs away, a sheer look of utter horror on his face. His face looks ashen, and I think he's about to vomit, but instead, a stream of curses leaves his mouth.

"Edward?"

He looks heart-broken. "Fuck, Bella. Your boyfriend. I didn't _think_—I didn't—fuck! I'm sorry. Fuck, I didn't mean to—"

"Edward?" I step in front of him, but he's tearing at his hair, looking like he's been punched in the gut. Several times. "Edward!" I yell when he doesn't look at me. Finally, he does, and it's a look of such regret and horror I'd keel over if I didn't have this news for him.

"I didn't mean, I swear I didn't—I didn't think… I'm so—"

"Stop it. Laurent and I broke up on Tuesday. It's a non-issue."

His hand halts to a stop in his hair as he slowly blinks at me. "You're—really?"

I nod. "Really."

"But why? How? Why didn't you tell me?"

I sigh. "We better have this conversation in the kitchen or I'll have to have the same convo twice."

But Edward isn't following me. He's staring off into space, seemingly at the brink of a realization, and I repeat his name twice before he snaps out of it and focuses his eyes on me. The way he's looking at me, it's almost like he's seeing me for the first time, eyes roaming over my body, and the slightest yet somehow absolutely elated smile on his lips.

"Gee, smile at my misery why don't you. Lovely."

"You don't seem miserable."

I sigh. "That's because I'm not."

He smiles, and there's a twinkle in his eye. "Is that why you… that night? And tonight?"

"Yes. Edward, our relationship might be non-romantic, but there's no way in the world I'd do that to Laurent."

"Good," he says, but his face twists, and I'm not sure which part of my sentence he replied to. Still, when I deliver the news to Emmett and answer all of my brother's questions, I feel Edward's eyes on me. And even though he's exhausted and didn't get as much sleep as he should have, he seems lighter. Like the weight of the world lifted. Lifted until it dropped and left Edward sitting here, behind this kitchen table, laughing at my jokes like he's never heard me before, gazing at my face like he's never seen me before, running fingers through his hair and beaming at me like I'm the Jupiter to his Europe. Or something equally symbolic.

Wait, Jupiter has too many moons for this symbolism. Never mind.

I know I'm not. A girl could dream. But I have time. Maybe I'll learn how to behave like a lady and swipe Edward off his feet. Maybe I'll read Cosmopolitan or a How To Guide: How to Dazzle Your Insanely Handsome Best Friend Even When He's the Pillow to Your Carrot.

My point is: maybe there's hope for me.

: :

_Sunday, the 27__th__ of February  
4.24 AM. Listening to Bach's Suite 846 on Edward's iPhone and risking with my life: I'm in Edward's room with my diary. _

I'm lying on my stomach. Edward's arms are wrapped around my waist, his head is leaning on my back, and he's breathing heavily, so I'm counting on him being asleep. His breath is tickling the side of my back, but I just crawled a bit towards the pillows, so I should have a fair warning before he wakes up. If you see a sentence that stops mid-way, you'll know Edward woke up. But I wanted to write this all down before I forgot it, so I'm taking this risk.

Something rather odd happened yesterday. But I'm being impatient. We'll get to that.

The first time I see Jacob Black after the incident in Principal's office, it's a Friday morning. I've changed into my sports clothes when I sit by an ergometer and re-read an excerpt the book Mr. Black gave me a few months ago. Today, we're focusing on anaerobic exercising, something that should make me gain muscle. When Mr. Black enters, he takes one look at me, sighs, and his eyes dart around. I've never seen him look so awkward.

"Morning." I smile. "Heading outside?"

"Good morning," he replies and comes to stand next to me. He's avoiding my eyes. "I should've asked you sooner. Did you take your warm clothes with you? I remember that you usually do, but I wasn't sure."

"I did. Do you want me to ski or something?"

He evades my question.

"Stretch a little, run fifteen laps, and then put your long trousers and a jacket on. I'll be waiting by the front door."

"Gotcha." I do as he says, and in fifteen minutes, he's motioning for us to step into the cold, grey winter morning. The faint light from the east proves that sunrise is hours away. It's cloudy.

"Keep yourself warmed up," he says as we walk toward the stadium. He turns on the floodlights, and the clank of it echoes. The middle of the stadium is covered in snow (no, our school does not have enough money to buy a roof for a stadium) but the track is red and clean. I do jumps and stretch my legs as the coach instructs me. You can see vapor from our breaths.

"I want you to run one hundred and then four hundred meters."

"Not yards?"

"Meters."

"What for?"

"Comparison."

"I mean—why are you making me sprint?"

"To see how much you've improved."

"Okay."

"Put everything you have into it."

I nod. I give my sports jacket to Mr. Black and remain in a jumper. It's fuh-reezing. Just like the coach has instructed me to, I jump high into the air a couple of times and prepare. He jogs to the finish line. Shorter distance first. Gotcha.

He's never asked me to do anything like this before, and that makes me nervous. Maybe, in his eyes, it's like an exam or something—which is rather odd considering that I've been preparing for a marathon. If I'm a lousy sprinter, it's not my fault. I'm preparing for a fucking marathon and not a sprint.

Mr. Black raises his hand to signal that I should take my position, and when I do, I wait for his hand to drop, but instead, he fires a gun. I leap into the air but that's out of surprise and not from my speed.

In another words, I make a false start.

"You've got a gun?!" I shout.

"Yes."

"Should've warned me first!"

"Consider yourself warned," he says back. "Count to three from when I drop my left hand, and then I'll fire the gun. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

I take my position, observe him, and take off at the gunshot. Freezing air whistles in my ears (should've taken a buff with me), but I'm throwing one leg in front of the other like I never have before. I have an odd, wonderful realization: I'm enjoying this. I do not know if I'm good or bad at this, I'm simply thrilled by the rush of freezing wind against my ears and an intense sense of being the maker of my own destiny. The absolute silence of a cold winter morning is what gets to me. It's something odd yet powerful, or maybe I'm imagining it all, but when I finally make it to the finish line, the coach is offering me the buff from around his neck.

"I don't want you to catch a cold."

"I never do," I pant, but put it on nevertheless. I clench my sides as I hyperventilate and put on my jacket again. "So how did I do?"

He hums, not admitting anything. I'm growing to hate that torture hum of his more than I dislike… Alice. Yeah. That'll work.

"Take a breath and warm up, and when you're ready, we'll do the four hundred."

I nod and jump around, letting my breathing slow. This time, the start and finish are closer, and he fires the gun right next to me. While I got a sense of thrill from doing one hundred, let me tell you: running a lap around the stadium, full speed, is like repeatedly running against the wall. I don't think I can describe how tired each and every one of my muscles gets. I'm panting. I'm exhausted.

Just like before, Mr. Black merely hums, lets me catch a breath, and after I've stretched for five or ten minutes (while he's scribbling on his notebook), he looks up and presses his lips together.

"Let's repeat one hundred meters."

He doesn't sound pleased. Apparently, I did not do well. What was he expecting, though?

"Why?"

"Trust me. You can do better."

"I'm not a sprinter, Mr. Black. I'm preparing for a marathon and not a sprint, remember?"

He puts away his yellow stopwatch and his notebook, and for the first time since that incident in Mr. Kramer's office, he looks me dead in the eye.

"A week ago, Michael Newton got an early acceptance to Yale. A football scholarship. How does that make you feel?"

Motherfucking son of a bitch.

Putting every ounce of energy into keeping composure, I offer him a grim nod and jog to the start-line. I'm sure this is common knowledge. It's probably a rumor that's going around, but the problem with me blocking rumors since Alice came around is just that: I've blocked them all. I don't talk about Michael Newton in my diary not because he's not doing something that everyone gushes on and on about, but because I don't want to waste my time on him. Not more than necessary.

So, let it be known that while I always paint him in a light that shows a clear opinion (because my perspective on him has been shaped by endless torment in middle school and one incident in particular), I either have to be Michael Newton's only case of sexual harassment, or his other victims are petrified of speaking to anyone. He has always been the teachers' pet. He's well-liked by the majority of my school and he knows how to make people do what he wants. His grades are definitely above-average, and he's not stupid by any means.

That's what kills me: if he were an open "bad boy," maybe people would believe what he did. But he's not, and they won't. It's too far from the picture they've painted of him. It doesn't match.

Why couldn't I have been somewhere else on that night? Why couldn't I have had more strength to fight three guys and run? But I didn't. I was just a gangly girl and an easy target.

The world is so fucking unfair, and that makes me furious. I warm up with ferocious energy. I throw my jacket off, put the buff on, and all I can see is Michael fucking Newton's smiling face as he, after x amount of years, graduates from an Ivy League school. Like he didn't leave a permanent mark in my psychic. Like he didn't spend time and effort and energy on tormenting a girl in a fragile age and made me feel immensely inferior in every fucking possible way. Like he didn't shove his dick in my mouth on a dark night, letting two guys hold me while I sobbed. Like he wasn't the reason I forced myself to forget hunger. Like he didn't make me doubt if I could be an equal as a sex partner. Fuck.

Why do I have to see him at school, every day, like he's surrounded by a bubble in which consequences don't exist? Why did he pick me? How was I so visibly different? Why does it have to matter so much? Just fucking _why_?

I nearly cough my lungs out when I finish, and I jump and stretch and pant to hide the fact that I'm crying. I can feel the lump in my throat, and it makes me burn with anger.

"Again."

It's my voice. Mr. Black hesitates for a second, as if wanting to make sure I'm okay, but my expression must've convinced him because he nods. I jog to the start, and I run again. And again. And again. And four hundred. And again. If at first I liked running one hundred, then now, all I can think about is how to exhaust myself even more, and interval training is exactly what I need.

After an hour and a half, when the sun has almost risen, Jacob Black and I walk back to the gym in silence. I'm still panting slightly. He says nothing, I ask nothing. We enter the gym. He hesitates.

"Have a shower. You can change into your regular clothes. I'll meet you right here in fifteen minutes. Is that enough time?"

I nod. Once again, he wants to say something to recognize my behavior, but I jog to the girl's changing room before he could. Fifteen minutes later, I slump on a bench next to him with all my belongings. He leans on his legs with his elbows, and I copy his posture. I imagine he's going to bring up Michael Newton, and honestly, I've spent too many thoughts on that guy already. A single thought is a thought too many. I don't feel like talking about him.

Jacob Black, however, surprises me.

"How do you think you did, Isabella?"

"Honestly? I was pretty damn lousy."

"Do you feel like you could've done better?"

"With training? Definitely."

"How much better?"

"A lot."

He hums. "That's good to hear."

"I was pretty shitty, huh?" I ask, but I'm so exhausted my hands are trembling. I look at my feet. "Sorry. I did the best I could—given the circumstances today."

"It's good that you feel you could be better," he says, scratching his forehead as he tilts his head sideways and gives a hint of a suppressed smile. "Because you just broke the school record in one hundred meters. Twice."

"You're shitting me."

He laughs. He shows me his notebook, and under 100 meters, he's circled my first (11.41) and second (11.37) time.

I watch him as he releases hair from his pony-tail and rewraps his hair into a pony-tail, glancing at me from time to time. He resumes to his earlier position and mirrors mine because I haven't moved. Mr. Black sighs.

"Peter told me not to ask you."

Oh, no. Not a discussion about Michael Newton again. I don't want to.

"He's a smart man. You should listen to him."

He smiles. "You and that Cullen boy, you're already trying to kill yourself, but… I want you in the track and field team, Isabella. I haven't spoken to Mrs. Haldane yet, but I strongly recommend that you join her team."

I let out a relieved laugh.

"Are you and Peter doing cocaine together? 'cause I'm pretty sure you're both on something."

He chuckles. "No."

"Are you suggesting that I'd be better at short distance than long distance? I'm still running that marathon. I think I could be really good, too."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't do the marathon. By all means, do. But if you could try out for short distance, go to a few competitions, attempt decathlon? You could really achieve something, Isabella."

"How do you know I'm not just a one hit wonder?"

"I don't," he replies simply. "I really don't. But screw talent. With your focus? I've never seen anyone train with that amount of determination before. I have literally been able to mold you in a way that leaves you no bad habits because you're _just_ _that_ _teachable_. You just broke the school record in 35 degrees when you're still raw. It's unofficial, so it doesn't count, but you still did it. But if we could polish you? You could be a diamond."

"That's the cheesiest thing I've ever heard."

"It's also true."

"So you want me to try out for Mrs. Haldane? For real?"

"For real."

"Huh."

His eyes are on me while I digest his words, and I know I need to react.

"Give me your thoughts. What's stopping you?"

"I'm just thinking… I have so much on my plate right now. I'm not sure if I'd have the time or energy without making sacrifices. I'm ready to tell you I can't, but… I don't know."

"Will you think about it? Give it some serious thought."

"I will," I answer, offering a small smile. "I promise I will."

I expect him to bring up the matter of him and Peter, but when he doesn't, I figure Peter has convinced him that I'm trustworthy. His initial awkwardness wore off when he saw I didn't bring it up once, so I hope he trusts me.

It's half to seven when I head back home. I break into a slow jog and admire the now orange skyline in the east as I do. I'm both physically and mentally exhausted, but the surprise and wonder of achieving something as an "athlete"—it makes me feel powerful. I know I'm raw. I'm an amateur. And I'm sure Mr. Black told me about Michael Newton's early acceptance to draw every bit of anger out of me. To make me faster. But if I found a way to be that fast without the thought of that asshole, would I want to explore that world? I don't even know if you could become an athlete when you start at seventeen. Probably not.

I imagine what it would be like to walk into the gym with people who've ran track for years, maybe a decade and a half. I really don't know the crowd that frequents track practice, but maybe I could win them over? The thought of breaking my image doesn't scare me (image? what image?), it's more the thought of failing myself that does. Maybe I wouldn't be good at decathlon at all. Maybe I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure of delivering at a competition.

But half a year ago, I would've laughed at anyone who told me I was going to run a marathon, and look at me now. Running like a pro.

No, not like a pro. More like a kangaroo on drugs.

Could I do it, though? Just like Mr. Black asked: What's stopping me?

Fear of failure, that's what. But then what? What if I do fail? What if I'm the shittiest competitor? I still have Drama. It's not like they can expel me for being a dreadful runner.

When I reach home, I do a bit of googling. I want to see how good you'd have to be as a female runner to be _good_, and I slam my laptop shut after I've done it.

Well, fuck.

I change into the funniest-looking red dress, yellow pantyhose with bees on it, a sweater with a reindeer, and make a tiny little braid right in the middle of my hair. I put on a sparkly headband. I run upstairs and stop at the kitchen doorway. Edward is semi-asleep, gulping down some coffee, Esme is filling the cross-word puzzle at the back of the newspaper, and Carlisle is typing on his laptop.

"Good morning!"

I hug Edward, 'cause that's what you do, but I also hug his parents before I sit and throw everything on my plate. I'm starving and greedy. Esme loves it.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine this morning?" Edward asks with a sleepy smile on his lips.

Oh, you know, I just filled last year's Olympic B-standard in one hundred meters a few hours ago.

"I've got a feeling about today."

"What about today?"

"Pigs just might fly today. As well as cows and cupboards."

Esme shakes his head and laughs, but so does Edward. The entire day, I feel like I'm floating. It's an odd day. I stop Mr. Black in the hallway to ask if the reason he didn't tell me was because of the margin of error or because he didn't want me to think too much of myself. He says it's a combination of both. I don't know what makes me do it, but I tell him I'll contact Mrs. Haldane and at least talk to her to see what she thinks. It's a crazy idea. That a girl who starts with sports at the old age of seventeen could accomplish something, but hey, since we're already breaking the rules, why not break all of them?

Even Alice doesn't bother me as much. We're behind a History classroom waiting for the teacher to arrive when she and her besties look me up and down, snickering. I hold my head high and continue to talk to Angela and Tanya. That is, until they start being obvious about it.

"Did you tear apart a curtain for that dress, Bella?" Alice says, and her little gang giggles.

"Listen, you—" Angela starts, but I step in front of her. I will fight my own fights.

"I told you, I only respond to Hee Haw."

Jane and the red-haired girl named Vicky laugh, and I'm sure it's a normal laugh, but it sounds like an obnoxious donkey in my ears.

Pardon me, beautiful donkeys of the world, for comparing those bitches to noble creatures like you.

Alice, of course, is clad in tight jeans and a tasteful white blouse with a black belt emphasizing her tiny waist and a Dolce & Gabbana bag (or something equally expensive) on her shoulder. You know, her impeccable sense of style wouldn't bother me in the slightest if it wasn't for this bigoted girl wearing them.

She starts applying lip-gloss as we stare at each other, and when she closes the little lip-gloss with a click, there's pity in her eyes.

"I just think you need some fashion advice, honey."

"You know, I really don't think I do."

Vicky smirks. "The problem is, we don't think there are enough three year olds' blankets for your pantyhose."

"The problem is—" Angela starts, but I stop her. I open my mouth, but Edward has arrived from P.E., and he puts a hand on my shoulder and kisses my cheek. As he does.

"You're looking un-curtain-like, as always, Bella."

The people around us laugh, and I beam a smile. Edward's arrival causes an immediate change in Alice's demeanor: She starts to play with her hair, smacks her lips together and gives Edward a coy smile, even laughs along a little.

"Hi, Edward," she says, her voice sounding uncomfortably purr-like. Edward offers a weak smile and nods. Alice's smile widens.

Honestly, I'm starting to feel sorry for this girl.

: :

On Saturday evening, after work and tutoring, I settle myself comfortably on the floor and lean against the couch. Ping Pong is lying in my lap. He has finally learned to hold in his pee and not shit on the carpet, which means less scrubbing for me. He has a spot in Edward's parents' room now for the night (and they seem to love it that he likes it there), so with less scrubbing comes less snuggling. I look at him, and he looks back like he could be trusted with any of my secrets.

I'm starting to feel a lot like a secret-keeper. And a secret, as Sheldon Cooper in _The Big Bang Theory _so eloquently put it, is a burden. Edward's adoption, his sister, his age, Michael Newton's assault, Jacob and Peter's relationship… I don't spend much time thinking about these things, but it's a lot of responsibility to have. I'm not afraid I'll accidentally slip. I don't think I will. But the responsibility intimidates me.

I put on the headphones and wait for dad to sign into Skype. We haven't been able to speak regularly to each other since the beginning of January. Maybe once a fortnight. This time, we haven't spoken for nearly three weeks, and I miss him. I just miss him. I miss the knowledge that he's in the other room and his scent and the fact that he never knows what we have in the fridge when he's grocery shopping.

I know he might as well not sign in and not have the chance to let me know he couldn't (until tomorrow), but this time, he also sent me a text-message that he'll be free tonight, so I'm crossing my fingers he is. And when his icon turns green, I'm so excited I call him right away.

"Bella, wait. Wait, let me put my ear pads on," he says while I add Emmett to our call. He joins. Meanwhile, I observe dad, and even through the shirt, I can tell he's ripped. His mustache is gone, and he looks incredibly young. Unlike me or Edward, he looks quite well-rested (at least he has a strict sleeping-schedule—unlike some of us). There's a brilliant, wide smile on his face, and he looks at me like I was looking at him a moment ago.

"Your hair looks different."

"I died it. Dark blonde or something," I answer, grinning. "Do you like it?"

He smiles. "I suits you."

"Yeah, Bella is quite the heartbreaker now," Emmett adds as he leans against a window in his current room. "The guys are going nuts over her."

"Oh, really?" dad asks.

"Dad, he's bullshitting. Nobody's breaking anyone's hearts."

"You liar. Tell him about Laurent."

"What about him?"

I sigh. "We broke up a week ago."

"Yeah, on _Valentine's_ Day. Talk about crushing a man's heart."

"I thought you liked Laurent," dad says, confused.

"I did, but—"

"She likes Edward mooore," Emmett finishes.

"Shut it, Emmett. I meant to say, you can't force something that isn't there. So we're done."

"How did he take it?"

"He's the angriest DE we've got right now," Emmett says. "He's crushed."

"Stop lying. He took it quite well… under the circumstances."

"He's fucking heartbroken," Emmett argues. "You should see him in practice. He's all about beating everyone up these days. And he can't even look at her in the cafeteria. Or Edward."

Dad looks at our banter like it's a tennis match. "What about him?" he asks, almost a warning.

"Dad, I did not cheat on Laurent!"

"Ah, good," he says, relieved.

I clear my throat and lower my voice to a mutter. "But if he and I were to—get involved, you'd be okay with that? Dad?"

Emmett's laughter is so loud I actually have to hold the headphones away from my ears, but when he quiets down, there's the widest, stupidest grin on his face. Amused by Emmett, dad is smiling slightly, but he then nods.

"If you're careful."

"Edward!" I yell. "I have good news! Dad says you and I can have sex now!

Dad is furiously shaking his head. "I said nothing of the—"

"Brilliant!" Edward yells back, and I just know he's sitting against his headboard, ear pads on as he writes. "Let's get to it then!"

Fortunately, my dad can't hear his answer or we'd spend the rest of the night talking about this. "What about your love life, Emmett?" I ask.

He groans. "Not subject to discussion."

"That sounds very fascinating," I continue, messing with him. "Who have you seduced?"

He reddens to a point where I start to worry about his health, but keeps shaking his head, so he's not saying anything. Very interesting.

"So, dad, tell us about life in Glynco," Emmett says. I nod. Dad shows us his room, which looks dreadfully ordinary with two single beds, a chair and a table. He shares it with an Oregon-born twenty five year old Frank, who—in dad's words—"lacks a filter," much like me. Maturely, I draw my irises close to my nose and howl. Dad laughs. It feels so good to talk to him about our everyday lives. His, of course, is much more fascinating with all the firearms training, defensive tactics, high threat trials and general badassing around. It's safe to say our dad is badass. I'm so fucking proud of him.

"So you both alright over there?" he asks after we reach a topic that he may not talk about.

Emmett grins at him. "Bella is now a straight A student, and I got accepted to the University of Warwick. Still pending on Seattle Pacific University and Eugene Lang College in New York."

Dad is smiling, but there's a question in his eyes. "Where's Warwick?"

"It's in England," Emmett says, absolutely serious.

"You applied to a university in _England_?" I ask. "Why?"

He shrugs. "I was bored."

I laugh until I'm wiping tears from my eyes.

"What?" he asks.

"We are so alike! It's hilarious. I would totally apply to a random college on the other side of the world."

He frowns. "It wasn't random. They had a Skype interview with me and everything. They had the course I wanted."

"Oh, really? And what's that? How to peel potatoes and juggle at the same time?"

He chuckles but shrugs, not answering.

"You've thought about what you want to major in?" dad asks.

"Yes," Emmett says.

"And?"

Emmett shrugs, reddening a bit. "It's not important right now."

Do tell. I always thought I inherited the blushing genes from dad and Emmett got our mom's perfect non-blushing complexion, but he has blushed twice in the course of a half an hour, so maybe not. Intriguing.

However, dad and I know better than to press. At one point, he'll cave in.

"And Bella? You're a straight A student now?" dad asks, grinning. "Clearly my absence has a good impact on both of you."

"Wait till you hear that I filled last year's Olympic B standard for one hundred meters yesterday."

"You're shitting!" Emmett shouts. "But you just started running, like, yesterday!"

"That's what I said," I reply, chuckling. "But Mr. Black made me run track and… apparently, my genes are pretty apt for running."

Dad looks like someone smacked him with a baseball bat. He stares at me in wonder. "Wow, indeed."

"That's so fucking awesome," Emmett says. "You're like a prodigy or something. Why aren't you bursting with pride? I'm so going to rub this under everyone's nose."

"It's not that I'm not proud. I am. It's just… it probably means nothing. It was just a one hit wonder moment. Besides, Peter wants me to teach Drama next year, and to do that, I'll have to keep up a 4.0 GPA, and I'm not sure I can. I'm already struggling with Spanish. And to exercise two to three hours every morning and make Ping Pong socialize and work part-time and tutor and… it's just too much." When I finish unloading my shit, I realize that in order to keep up with my mission to not make dad worry, I should avoid situations where I complain like this. I purse my lips in a smile. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to whine. I'm fine. It's okay."

Dad is staring at me like he's seeing me for the first time. He's wide-eyed. "I didn't realize…"

"It's fine. I'm fine. I'm sorry. I'm just a bit tired right now."

He's not that easily convinced. "I think you should quit your job. I mean it. You'll have your entire life to work, and I'll be able to support you next year as well. Do you have any money left from what I gave you?"

"All of it."

"Then what's the problem?"

I feel independent when I work. The scheduling is often complex, and no, I don't have much free time, but in return for that, I have the freedom to spend my own money on what I want and not feel guilty. Buying silly headbands for half a price for dad's money? I haven't used his money for stuff like that for so long it makes me feel guilty when I do.

"Don't wear yourself out, Bella. Or you, Emmett, for that matter. I couldn't be happier that you're doing so well, but you're not a robot. I don't want you on anti-depressants the moment you turn eighteen. I'm not going to be less proud of you if you take some time for yourself. You used to draw and read and cut poems out of cheap books, do you still do that?"

I haven't cut out poems and articles and quotes for _months_. I miss doing silly stuff like that.

"What if I suddenly need something that costs a lot?"

"Then you ask me, and we'll figure it out."

I hum, that Mr. Black's awfully nondescript sound that says absolutely nothing.

"Please think about it. I'd be happy if you quit. Give them your two weeks' notice tomorrow when you go in."

I nod, and he knows I'll think about it. I think my head is about to explode from the amount of decision-making I'll have to do. To quit or not to quit? To teach or not to teach? To try out for Juilliard or not? To join Mrs. Haldane's track team or not? To tell Edward about my feelings or not?

To be or not to be?

Now that's just suicidal, Shakespeare. Not to be! Poof! I'm dead!

When I end my call to dad and Emmett, I lie on the floor and stretch. Ping Pong licks my face but the moment he hears the front door shut (Carlisle must be home), he runs upstairs and leaves me by myself. Me and my laptop. How sad. But I get up and knock on Edward's door, and just like I knew he would be, he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, leaning on the headboard. He's got ear pads in his ears. Like the gentle-souled man he is, he gives me privacy when I talk to dad and Emmett. He takes them out and smiles.

I walk to the side of his bed, open my arms wide, face-plant myself on his bed and groan. I hear Edward laugh and shut his laptop. I feel the bed dip from his side as he snickers and lies down right next to me. He turns his face toward me and I turn mine to look at him.

"Everything alright with your dad in Georgia?"

I nod. "He's badass."

"He—sent me a message to talk to me tomorrow morning."

"To you? What for?"

He shrugs.

"He could've just told me he needed to speak to you."

"He forgot. And had to go. He said so in his text."

"Alright."

We lie there, not touching, just looking at each other. His now rather short hair isn't as messy as it used to be, but I love it. I raise my hand to twiddle with it, and his shuts his eyes as I do. He's still got circles underneath his eyes, but he seems lighter—that could be my wishful thinking, though—and happier. But he's sleep-deprived. So am I.

"How are you holding up?"

He smiles. "Nothing to complain about. You?"

He sleeps less than anyone else I know, and all he says is, 'Nothing to complain about'? Edward is not human.

"Trying to avoid decisions. I just want to sleep. Can I—can I sleep here? I mean, you can continue writing. I know it sounds impossible, but I'm known to shut up once or twice in my life. But only after you give me a proper hug."

There's a glint in his eye as he turns to lie on his side. He wraps me in his arms so that I'm facing him and leaves a lingering kiss on my cheek. He stares at me.

"Like this?" he asks with a rough voice. He clears his throat. I nod. Two can play this game, so I place a wet kiss behind his ear (he groans) and snuggle closer, sighing. His arms tighten around me.

"I'm sorry about Thursday morning," he mutters close to my ears. "I have no excuse for how I almost molested you."

"You were dreaming. That's not something you can control."

"Still," he says in a grim voice. "I'm sorry."

"Shut up and cuddle."

He laughs, kisses my forehead, and I don't think I fully understood how exhausted either of us was until I open my eyes again, and it's three AM. We've slept for eight hours. We're both clothed, his bed-side lamp is on, and Edward has wrapped his body entirely around mine: feet around mine, arms around my waist, hiding his face in the crook of my neck and lips right against my collar-bone. I kiss his cheek and reach for the lamp.

"Love? What're you…?"

His eyes are closed, but he's already searching for me with his hands.

"Switching off the—" It clicks. "Lamp."

I pull the cover on us, and the moment I've settled back against him, he sighs deeply and I know he's asleep. I don't think he's realized this, but he's called me love twice now, and that gives me hope. It could be false hope because the first time, he wasn't sober, and the second time, he wasn't entirely awake.

But even false hope is hope.

I can't help myself: I press my lips against his, just for a moment, and as a response, Edward tightens his arms around me and lets out a long, content-sounding sigh.

: :

It's eight AM when I've replaced myself with a pillow and emerge from Edward's room. I slept for thirteen hours. Shower feels good. It's like a new world. When I step into the kitchen, Esme is sitting in Carlisle's lap and showing him pictures on her camera. I don't want to interrupt their moment, so I do a one eighty and step out of the kitchen.

"Bella!" Esme calls after me. I turn and see her get up. "It's alright. Come and have a look. I came down to invite you two to have supper, but you guys were so adorable I just couldn't wake you. I hope you slept well."

I smile. "Better than a yawning marshmallow, thanks."

She chuckles and holds the camera out to me. There's picture of me and Edward, lying on his bed, facing each other with Edward encasing both of my hands in his and another arm over my waist. Our faces are inches apart.

"How cute is that? You look like his baby sister," she says. "He even holds you like that."

Oh, God, I hope not.

I happen to lock eyes with Carlisle, and I might be wrong, but I think he's suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. He grins and shrugs, as if saying, 'What can you do?' But, from that point on, it becomes very clear he's aware that Edward and I might or might not have a thing going on. Jesus, he might even think we're sleeping together. I wouldn't be surprised.

"Sweetie, no," Carlisle says, pulling her into a kiss.

"But look at that picture! They could be siblings."

He shakes his head. "They're not."

"But he certainly treats her like that," she says, adamant. "_I _think it's sweet."

I grimace, and Carlisle lets out a chuckle at the face I make.

"I treat Bella like what?" Edward asks, sleepy-looking as he rubs his eyes and pulls me into a morning hug and a kiss on my temple. Esme observes us, somewhat smug-looking.

"See? I told you."

This time, Carlisle takes a deep, slow breath, something I've never seen him done, but I just know that's how he deals with his own impatience.

"Told him what?" Edward asks, pouring coffee and still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"That you treat Bella like a little sister. It's really sweet."

Carlisle keeps shaking his head. I grip a plastic milk bottle as I start to straighten my back and close the fridge, but my eyes land on Edward, and he's halted to a stop, mid-pouring. The thought has never occurred to me, and the certainty with which I felt I had finally fully interpreted Edward's actions deflates with imaginary whistle accompanying it and everything. I feel like I've made a fragile decision based on little evidence.

I mentally plead him to deny or laugh it off, but the moment passes, he shrugs and keeps pouring his coffee.

My milk bottle slips from my fingers and makes a dull sound as it hits the ground. It doesn't break or leak, nothing dramatic. I pick it up and sit down. I see Carlisle stare at Edward and then at Esme, who is still beaming at her son. Carlisle leans a bit toward me and mutters, "Morons."

It's such an _un_-Carlisle thing to say that I burst out laughing.

"What?" both Edward and Esme ask as they sit. I simply shake my head, make eye contact with Carlisle who winks at me, and laugh harder. Carlisle has officially won me over.

Later, when Edward's phone has alerted him of the time he needs to sign into Skype and Esme is off doing their laundry (I insisted on doing mine at the very beginning), Edward's dad and I sit alone by the kitchen table. Well, him and Ping Pong, to be precise. But Ping Pong is a non-talking ingredient, so he doesn't count.

Sorry, Wall-E.

"Carlisle." He puts away the newspaper and leans against the backrest, and I get his full attention. "Er, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your reading."

"It's fine." He smiles. "I see you've finally remembered my name."

"Hey, it only took me three months," I reply. "But if I ever get any kids, your name is out of the equation."

He places a hand on his heart, but he's amused. "You wound me."

"Don't worry, I don't think there's anyone who'd want to mix his genes with mine, so you're not the only one whose name won't be used." I press my lips in a smile. "I actually wanted to ask how I could repay you for my sessions with Dr. Hunter."

"How are they going? Do they help?"

"I think so. How do you measure such a thing? But I think they do. He knows how to get me to speak, and isn't that what he's supposed to do? Either way, he's pretty cool. Odd, but cool. So, how do you want me to pay you back?"

He shakes his head. "He's doing it for free. You owe me nothing."

"He owes you a favor, which means one less favor for you, which means I have to give you something for the favor he'll no longer owe you."

I can see him trying to follow my logic, but he just shakes his head and chuckles. "You owe me nothing. End of story."

"But I—"

"Nothing, Bella," he repeats, unwavering. "Although…"

"Yes? I have to buy you bananas for the rest of your life? Anything."

He laughs. "Although… try not to break Edward's heart, okay?"

"He's doing a fine job breaking mine," I joke.

"Oh, that? That was for show for Esme. If he'd realized the answer meant something to you, he'd have reacted differently."

I'm not as convinced as he is, but I nod. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and looks around; probably to make sure we really are alone.

"I'm sure you've noticed that Esme is often kept… out of the flow of sensitive information. I can't even imagine how insensitive you must think we're being, acting like this, but you have to understand, she's—she's had a tough life."

"I never thought you were insensitive. We're all shaped by the things that happen to us, aren't we? Some more than others. That doesn't make you a bad person if you think the best way to protect her is by preventing pain or worry."

He blinks at me like a lazy stop light, and then laughs silently. "Are you sure you're seventeen? Couldn't have put it better myself. But I want you to understand, the only thing Esme ever wanted, her health prevented from having, and like you said, it has affected her. She's stronger than she thinks she is, much like you, but she worries with intensity hard to imagine for those who haven't seen her concern. It can be overwhelming. So, sometimes, it is easier for Edward and me to not… make her worry."

Children.

He doesn't understand that I know about Edward's adoption, but I do. Esme always wanted _children_. And because they only adopted one, he's their precious. Their one and only. Of course she wants to protect him and overwhelm him with kindness and keep him from all the evil of the world.

"Are you and Edward having sex?" Carlisle suddenly asks, dead serious, and the bluntness that I always want people to use hits me right in the head.

"We are not."

"Good." He nods, looking me dead in the eye. "Make sure you're on the same page before you take that step. Edward looks easy-going but he—he can be intense." Carlisle smiles. "Esme might just have a minor seizure when she sees you two do not see each other as siblings after all, but I have no illusions about this, or about Edward. He's young. I think he should have the right to break the rules a little."

"Are you saying you'd approve if Edward and I were to date? Gee, that sounds awfully official."

Maybe I'll sign a contract in which I'll state that on a scale from one to ten, my love for Edward is somewhere between Too Fucking Much and Gee, Why Am I Preparing for Our Wedding I Don't Even Know If I Want to Get Married.

I redden. Carlisle laughs and shakes his head.

"I think you're just the right amount of crazy for him."

"Gee, thanks," I add. "But don't forget, I can sing Frank Sinatra and lie naked on his bed and lay it all on the line, he could still let me down easy."

He sort of huff-laughs and shakes his head. "Just don't tell him at school. I don't want to end up in the Principal's Office explaining to Mr. Kramer why my son and the girl whose caregivers we currently are ended up having sex in the broom closet."

I snort.

"It's a deal," I agree. I'm a bit baffled by the amount of freedom he's letting us have, but maybe he's been stricter before and it didn't work. Maybe he remembers the time he was a teenager. Or maybe, just like he says, he has no illusions about young love.

"Carlisle? One more thing. I always felt like you didn't like me all that much when I first came here. Why?"

He laughs. "Oh, I've always liked you. But that is a question you should ask Edward. It's his to answer."

I nod and stand up. "I never noticed how cool you are."

He lets out a laugh, messes with his hair a little so that it stands up like Elvis', and says, "How about now?"

I'm crying from laughter when I turn the corner and bump into Edward. He grips my waist to holds on to me, but he's got a question in his eyes. I point behind me, turn my head and yell, "Carlisle, will you marry me?"

"Sorry, already taken!"

"Darn it," I place a hand on my heart and battle my (many) eyelashes at Edward. "Let's go have sex now."

"Bella!" Carlisle yells, half-chuckling.

"Sorry," I correct myself. "Edward, let's go talk the living applesauce out of each other, and _then_ have sex." For good emphasis, I put my hand on Edward's shoulder and guide his confused butt downstairs. "So, I've been thinking. I think we'd make really good fuck-buddies. No feelings, just good old sex."

He lets go of me and blinks, horrified. "_Bella_."

"Eh, it was worth a try," I say, and can't help but start laughing. "I'm sorry, you're too precious not to mess with."

"_Jesus_, that wasn't funny."

"It totally was. You should've seen your face."

He shakes his head and puts his hand on my shoulder like I did with his, and we head to his room. "One day, I will make you pay. Be scared."

"I am very, very scared, my scary man."

: :

I'm sure, in a world more complex, it would be called flirting, but I can't flirt. Maybe that's it, though. Maybe Edward can't understand that what I'm doing should, in fact, qualify as flirting.

I consider lying naked on his bed, just so that my intentions were clear, but I really do think he'd kiss me on the forehead and tell me to get dressed to "not take advantage of me."

In a twisted way, our roles have reversed. I imagine how oblivious I used to be, and then I look at Edward, and I really do think he's got more doubts about my reciprocity that I do about his. It's weird, but it seems to be true.

It's silly, the way I want to tell him, but I'm doing a PowerPoint presentation about him and why we'd be so perfect for each other. I occasionally make myself laugh while making it (hey, that's a clear sign I'm in perfect health), and I do realize how ridiculous my idea is, but I'm going to present it to him on the morning of his real birthday, the 25th of March.

Unless I find his breaking point, I'll have tread carefully, because I'm pretty sure I'm reaching mine.

Until then, I'll torture him however I can.

Yesterday, we were in Westfield Southcenter in Tukwila because Carlisle has a three-day long conference in Atlanta and Esme took us with her as we sent Carlisle off. So we're walking in the mall, not really entering any shops, when a young slender woman stands right in front of Edward, blocking his way.

"Excuse me?" she says, looking straight at Edward. "Excuse me?" she repeats, beaming a mega-watt smile that somehow fails to look commercial. "I'm Kate. I work for the Puma Athlete's Guild, and we're looking for models for Puma. The photo shoot itself will only take about fifteen minutes. Would you happen to be interested?"

She looks at Edward, so I take a step backwards and let out a snicker. Honestly, leave it to Edward to be so photogenic as to get approached in the middle of a mall about a photo-shoot. I can see the set, too. It's right next to us, a gigantic green wall behind a fake mountain with a thirty degree slope, maybe. A blue tent covers the rest of the view.

"It doesn't take long, and the winner of the photo shoot gets a contract with Puma for a year. It's the third time we're doing it and it's a great way to earn money next to school."

Edward smiles, it's polite and disinterested. "No, thanks."

"And your girlfriend?" she asks, bypassing Edward so that she's looking at me with her too-blue eyes.

I laugh. "We're not—"

"Would you be interested?"

"I—wait, you're asking _me_?"

Immediately, Edward is behind me, gripping my shoulders. "She's always dreamed of becoming a model. Ever since she was a little girl."

I look back at Edward (he doesn't let go of my shoulders), and honest to god, I've never seen a grin as smug as he's wearing right now. He's so self-satisfied that I elbow his side. His grin only widens.

The pretty woman's eyes sparkle at his words. "Really? Now's your chance." A booklet lands in my hands as she appraises my appearance, nodding and humming as she looks at my calves and my height and my face. "Come on in."

Edward ushers me in, not letting me go. I elbow him.

"You are so fucking dead, Edward."

He simply grins like the sun relocated itself into his mouth.

"This of it as working on your self-esteem."

"Bullshit. Think of my knee in your groin like an accessory."

He laughs.

We enter the blue tent. I'm in a daze.

There's rustling and cameras and nervous-looking models, both male and female. Not too many. I count seven. Make-up artists are working on some of them, others are standing and looking at the current photo shoot, a sleek-looking guy leaning on a gorgeous blonde. All look slender and athletic and not even too tall. Definitely shorter than me or Edward.

The girl motions at the set. "So, the deal is, the winner of the photo shoot gets to be on the cover of Runner's World, and to advertise Puma for a year. Last year's winner, Lara Groove, got noticed by Vogue Magazine and now she's a hotshot model in NYC. How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Edward says.

"Do you run?"

"She's doing the Seattle Marathon in the summer."

"Really?"

"She's really good, too."

"How many have you done?"

"It's her fifth," Edward lies, smiling. "She's always among the top ten, too."

"Impressive," Kate says, still appraising me. "Alright, so I need you to change clothes. Where's George? He'll make you all pretty. What size are you? XS? S? We'll also probably have to use Josh, he's our tallest model. Seriously, where's George?" She walks off, leaving us standing there. I elbow Edward's stomach.

"You're a dirty liar."

He grins.

"I'm going to kill you on the way home. I'll just drag you to a forest and beat you to death after having removed your brain with a spoon."

He continues to grin, and he's still standing behind me, refusing to let go of my shoulders. A shorter, fair-haired and groomed man arrives with Kate and shoves clothes in my hands. Meanwhile, Kate points out a man with such symmetrical features the beauty doesn't even look natural.

"You're okay with modeling with a partner, right? 'Cause that's your partner. His name is Josh. He's from Argentina."

"Hot."

Kate nods, smiling.

"She's not going solo?" Edward asks, tightening his grip.

"Nope. That's why I originally stopped you guys—it's the seventh day in, our final day, and we've only found a few guys. But when we do, their girlfriends aren't always too happy to see them getting all hot and bothered with models, even if it's make believe."

Edward chokes. "Pardon?"

Kate smiles. "It's all fake, I promise."

"I'll do it."

I want to see Edward's face, but he won't let me.

"I mean—is that possible?"

She nods. "George? Bring this young man some clothes."

For a moment, they leave us alone. For the umpteenth time, I elbow Edward. This time, I crouch out of his grasp to see his face. I want to wipe that self-assured grin off his face.

"I'm offended. You were supposed to be my friend. Why do you cock-block me like that?"

Edward blinks. Sure enough, the grin falters.

"I mean," I continue. "Look at that man meat. Think of all that dry-humping in the back room you just deprived me of."

His face pales. "You mean—you wanted to—with him?"

"Duh. Who wouldn't?"

"Oh." He looks almost like I've slapped him. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to be uncomfortable. I can just not do it. I'm sorry."

Honestly, this man's concern for me is so sweet I can't even torture him. So I snicker and kiss his cheek.

"You're adorable."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Edward, I shit more than the average bull. Of course I wasn't serious."

He sighs, it's long and loud.

"Jesus, you'll be the death of me."

"Son of God I am not. Death of you? Yes. Already planning that murder with a spoon."

Clothes land in his hands, and we both go to change. The clothes I'm given are, well, small. There are tight Puma shorts, which are fine, and a matching sports bra slash top. It feels like a very comfortable bra, but looks like a top. They didn't give me a T-shirt, and I saw those scantily clad girls, so I'm assuming I'm supposed to feel half-naked. I don't think I've ever felt more out of my element than at this moment.

But I aim for my old philosophy: fake it til you make it. So I feign confidence as I step out, but I can't even start to look around before bra pads land in my hands. Okay-dokey. Point taken.

When I'm done, I'm ushered to sit in a chair, and a man (who introduces himself as Trent) starts to make a fuss over my hair. Two women, probably make-up artists and/or hairdressers circle me, and I search for Edward, but he's nowhere to be seen.

"I haven't really run a marathon before," I tell Kate when she stops for a moment. She nods.

"I know. You look too feminine for that."

Feminine? Did she just say _feminine_?

"Good luck," she says, smiling. "You're in good hands." A moment later, she's gone—in search of other victims, I'm sure. I close my eyes as Trent messes with my hair.

"What skin products do you use? You have great complexion."

I open my eyes again. "Er… water?"

"Nothing else?"

"Er, no?"

He smiles. "You're a lucky girl."

Why should I take credit for the stuff that's out of my control? It's unfair. It's like complimenting people on their eye color or height or shoe size—you do nothing to achieve it. Why take credit for it?

At one point, Edward sits next to me, and he's wearing a lot more than I am. He's got shorts and a white, professional-looking T-shirt. Looking effortless and handsome, as always.

"Hey, why do you get to wear actual clothes? That is so unfair."

Edward opens his mouth to answer, but no words come out as his eyes land on my state of undress. He gulps and averts his eyes. Gee, have I really turned Edward Cullen speechless? That's a first.

"It's because you're a girl with skin," Trent says. "Skin is sex, honey. Sex sells." He looks at the blonde woman next to him. "Wig? No wig?"

I notice that literally every other girl has long hair. They make me try on some wigs, and honestly, I never thought I'd say this, but I look way better with short hair. They seem to agree, because after the third wig, they give up and start to style my hair. A lady is styling Edward's hair, too, and I think it takes a bottle of hair product to tame his.

"Have you ever thought of a nose job?" the red-haired woman asks me, completely blasé as she applies some skin-colored cream on my face. It doesn't even show. Why bother if you're aiming for natural? My face looks exactly the same.

Confusing shit, seriously.

"Yes."

Edward's eyes snap to mine in the mirror.

"What's stopping you?" Trent asks.

"Well, other than not actually wanting to do it… I think it's the fact that I like cheese. Definitely."

Trent erupts into laughter, right after Edward. One of the women does, too, the other one looks confused and slightly constipated.

"Is it the money?" Trent asks, still indifferent-looking. He picks up some tweezers.

"No, it's the cheese," I answer, staring at his tweezers. "You're not going to pluck my eyebrows out. I don't care they're close to my eyes. Please don't."

"I'll just shape them slightly."

"Slightly? How much is that?"

He looks at me in the mirror. "Well, three hairs on the right and five on the left."

"That works."

That hurts, too. And they're not even touching Edward's eyebrows, which is totally unfair.

"So, how is this going to work? Are you going to photoshop my face out of the picture?"

"You're selling shoes and clothes, honey. No-one will be looking at your face. And you'd be amazed by how much you can work with angles."

"Then why all the make-up?"

"To make the lighting work."

They find a way to make me look remotely attractive by applying all sorts of invisible skin-colored stuff on my face. I'm confused, though—why compliment me on my skin only to cover it up in a way that doesn't show there's a product used? It makes no sense. They enhance my eyebrows without making it look like they drew them on. I'm impressed. I almost look attractive. Almost.

"So I heard you'd always wanted to become a model?"

"I've never—"

Edward cuts me off.

"She's never thought it could actually happen. She grew up in a strict Presbyterian household, and when her mom passed away, she felt it was unfair of her to dream of becoming a model. It's a heart-breaking story, really."

They 'aw' and look all sad and sappy and shit. If it were anyone else, I'd be cutting his balls off, but when I look at Edward, he's wearing the same bullshitter's arrogant smile.

"Oh, don't mind my friend here, he's gay—"

"Gaining so much from this experience, supporting my girlfriend like this." He grins and holds my hand to squeeze it. They 'aw' again. Shit, a day has come when Edward bullshits me right back.

"It took years for Edward to understand he's gay—"

"I was depressed for so many years, you know, and it's been really important for me to feel gay. My girlfriend really helped with that." He flutters with his eyelashes and squeezes my hand. He's an inch away from laughing.

I can't not do it. I burst into laughter. Trent and the two women look very confused (and amused), and I'm just laughing my ass off.

Seriously. This is why Edward is my best friend.

Soon, we're next to a man with a gigantic camera. He gives instructions, and Kate beams a smile a mile wide when she sees us, all dressed up and covered in "natural" make-up. When it's our turn, I'm asked to lie on the slope, with Edward on top of me, and we're playing out a scene where I fell and Edward is there to pick me up.

Er, original. Haven't seen that one before.

Edward is in a press-up position (with one hand), his other arm wraps around my waist to hold me up, and he doesn't break a sweat while doing it. I breathe on his neck as he looks up and listens to the instructions.

"Bend your knee, yes. Can you hold this position? Just tell me if it gets too much."

"It's fine," Edward says, breathing on my hair. The entire situation is completely surreal. Edward secures his hold, tightening his arm around me, he's instructed to look down at me, completely serious. His palm on my waist is getting clammy while the rest of his body feels hot.

I don't know what world they live in, but this is an awful lot of trouble to go through to sell shoes and clothes. Just put them on a hanger with a '20% off' sign or something.

"You are so dead after this," I whisper.

"You had every freedom to say no," Edward mutters back. "I expected you to. Why didn't you?"

"Touché."

But damn it, it tickles. So I laugh.

"Passionate, good. Keep it up, Edward, very natural. Go lower, right above her face. Isabella, smile less. Look like you have a secret."

Look like you have a secret? He's high.

I let my head fall closer to the ground to look at the photographer. "Yes, but when you're in the arms of a man as hot as Edward, you don't hold back."

A few models chuckle. I stop to look at the photographer, and he looks right at me, completely serious. A tall, brunette, authoritative-looking man walks up to him. He asks to see the photos the photographer's taken, and they discuss something. After a half a minute, the brunette man eyes us. "We changed our minds. Isabella, was it? Smile."

No hay problema, as Emmett would say.

"Edward, put the tip of your nose in front of hers. Higher… there. Chest touching hers, lower. Very good. Put your knee down right next to her hip. Good. Isabella, look at his lips and smile."

Edward tightens his hold, gazing down at me, and suddenly, the situation stops being funny. He strokes my waist with his thumb, and I hear him hum, low and growl-like as he breathes on the side of my lips. His nose is (instructed to be) touching my cheekbone, probably in an attempt to cover my profile, but I barely listen to the photographer. I'm starting to feel Edward's arm quiver ever so slightly, but when the man next to the photographer asks if he can hold this exact position, Edward claims to be fine. He's not. Either he's too much of a man to admit this is difficult, or he's trying to show off. Or maybe both.

"Edward?" I whisper.

He draws a line on my cheek with his nose, nodding. Our proximity is maddening.

"It's okay if I'm too heavy."

"You're lightweight," he mutters, still stroking my waist.

"But you're tired."

"I'm fine."

I can feel his arms quiver from the exertion of holding me.

"Great," the photographer says. "Now, Isabella, lie down. Yes, like that. Edward, grip her knee, but lean towards her like you did before. Brush your lips against hers, just slightly."

Edward stares at my lips and breathes on them, and I'm nanoseconds away from molesting him. He growls when I shift, so it's assuring to know that he is, too. He starts to play with my nose with his, brushing them against each other and earning a grin from me.

"Alright guys, I think we've got it," the tall brunette guy next to the photographer says. "Thanks. Kate will explain what happens next and lead you out."

They resume to observing the pictures they made. Edward has set me down and our bodies are lined up with each other, but he mutters in my ear. "Don't move."

I try to shift myself to see his eyes, but he growls, grips my hip and presses himself against me. "Don't. Move."

I can't help but let out a laugh. I've given him a boner.

"It's not funny," he says, hiding his face in my neck. I start to sit, but he grunts. "_Bella_," he warns.

"Edward," I reply innocently.

"Stay still," he warns. "Unless you want me to attack you. Give me a moment."

And I do. He takes deep breaths, but even when he's calmed down and able to stand, he moves a bit awkwardly and always behind me. We put down our information, and Kate explains that they'll contact us in two weeks regardless of whether we got it or not. When I've changed clothes, I exit the blue tent and wait for Edward for a good five minutes before he emerges with the most self-satisfied grin on his face. He throws a hand on my shoulder and leaves a lazy, happy kiss on my forehead.

"You just totally jerked off in the changing room, didn't you?"

The tips of his ears redden, but his grin widens. "I might have."

I laugh. I hide my face in his chest and laugh, I cower and laugh, and when I make eye contact with Edward, he's grinning. Not even slightly embarrassed by what he did (except for the red on top of his ears, that is). He shrugs.

"When you're in the arms of a girl as hot as you, you don't hold back," he quotes.

It's a surreal, out-of-body experience I had, pretending to be one of the pretty girls, and honestly, I don't really care if they got the shot they wanted or not. Edward and I stroll to Esme's car with stupid grins on our faces, and I tease him mercilessly. It's a wonderful day.

: :

_Friday, the 5__th__ of March  
2.22 PM. I'm hungry. Edward better smuggle some Greek yoghurt in for me. So, bear with me. It's a bit difficult to write.  
_

Monday, the 1st of March, is my mom's birthday. It's a day that starts horribly, and then gradually gets worse.

I'm not really a girl who lets bad mood get to her, but there's a first time for everything. Monday morning, I wake up with a headache. I don't get ill easily, so I try to shrug it off and head to the gym. But during my daily exercise routine with Mr. Black, I insist on running a hundred metres again, and again, and again. And you know what? I can't repeat my 11.37 seconds. I can't even repeat 11.41. Mr. Black keeps assuring me that it's fine. It happens. You can't be on top of your game all the time. But, fuck it, I don't want proof that I was just a one hit wonder, but that's just what I get. I run a lousy 12.09.

As if on cue, the headache that I forgot about returns and multiplies after practice.

Emmett's old sports bag's strap breaks on the way home, and at home, I discover that I have a huge test in Math that I haven't studied for. At that point, I'm almost ready to crawl under my bed and pretend I have the plague. But I don't. To prove to myself that: fuck this headache! Fuck Math test! I am the maker of my own mood! So I wear my white dress and chicken slippers. For mom. It almost doesn't stretch enough to fit my hips, so at least that's good.

I'm silent during breakfast. On our way to school, Edward walks next to me, hands in his pockets, quietly appraising me.

"Are you okay? Did I—do something?"

"No," I assure him and even manage a smile. "I just don't think pigs fly anymore." I sigh. "Or giraffes or ponies."

"Is there anything I can do?"

I press my lips into a closed-lips smile and shake my head.

"Are you sure?"

I nod. Edward throws an arm on my shoulder, squeezes it and we walk to school in silence. I appreciate that he doesn't press. He questions me with his eyes when we part ways—I think I see the vulnerability in his—but simply leaves a kiss on my temple and tries to pull my lips into a smile with his thumb. I snicker at his effort, and he rewards me with a genuine grin.

I don't even think I'm in a bad mood. I just get contemplative. I observe the students in my high school as if I weren't part of them, I watch them interact and laugh and tease each other. During the second break, just when I'm about to catch Edward to see if he could borrow me some lunch money, I stop when I see him smile at Tanya as they talk. Edward is holding his notebook and Tanya is right next to him, holding a finger on something when she throws back her head and laughs. She's got a really pretty laugh, too.

I stand there, watching them together, and catch my own reflection from the mirror above an old, dry fountain. Now, bear in mind today is a low point, and we've all got those, but I envision the moment freeze as Tanya laughs her beautiful, feminine laugh in slow motion, and I just look at my reflection, brown eyes under undefined eyebrows, bumpy nose, giant forehead covered by my short hair, and I catch myself thinking: Who am I kidding? Have I convinced myself that Edward is genuinely romantically interested in me?

Maybe he's physically attracted to me, no feelings attached.

It goes against anything I've learned about him, but it's a horrible day, and that day, my self-worth is six feet under.

I look down at my feet and the chicken slippers I'm wearing today just aren't doing it for me. Instead of making myself known, I give one last glance at Edward—he's laughing at something Tanya said—and turn around. In the back of my mind, I know he's being polite, and this interaction must mean nothing to him, but my thoughts today are making me feel as lowly and inferior as possible.

I walk away.

During Art History, I further dig myself into a hole as I (for the first time, _seriously_) entertain the idea that I've entirely misunderstood Edward and I had to be delusional to think that a guy like him goes for an ugly duckling like me. The thought makes me feel empty. I catch my reflection on the window, and I just feel emptier. There's a battle going on inside me. My heart says that Edward being affectionate with me means something, but my head is dominating every other part of me, so I'm uncharacteristically grim and quiet during the lesson.

I also think that the Alice girl can sniff a bad day from a mile away, because during the third break, when I leave the bathroom, she's standing in the corridor, and I'm suddenly aware that I've never seen her wander in the corridor alone. She usually has either Jane or Vicky, or a swarm of people I do not know around her.

"I think I might be able to help you out," she says, and her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You know, make you look acceptable."

Make me look _acceptable_? If this is not a ploy or a bet that ends with me embarrassing myself, I'm a juggling Chihuahua. I'm not in the mood for this.

"Fuck you, Alice."

She throws back her head and huffs. "I was just trying to help."

"_Sure_ you were. You find every fucking possible situation to humiliate me, and now you're trying to _help_."

"I was just being honest," she says. "And I could make you popular if you wanted. So excuse me for trying to help!"

"Fuck. The moment you waltzed into our school, you made a perfectly okay crowd obsessed with their status! Most of us actually got along and then you came in with your fucking obsession about the way everyone looks and starting rumors _you_ _know_ aren't true and humiliating people at every turn! But did it ever occur to you that some of us genuinely don't care? I refuse to be your fucking charity case, Alice."

"You're just jealous because girls like me could get guys like Edward anytime and you'll always be the perpetual best friend!"

I know we're gathering attention, but I don't pay enough attention to care. I find myself pouring my today's insecurities into a battle with Alice.

"Ah, that's so fucking rich. So what if guys like him don't notice me? So what? So what if he would never choose me? He's nice enough not to want to change me. Unlike some of us, I'm not desperate enough to constantly assess people's opinion of myself so that I could evaluate my clothing choice and language and behavior for it to fit into how I wish to be perceived! I'll repeat—I don't give a fuck!"

"Puh-lease. Everyone sees the way you look at Edward, it's like you've been in a desert for a week and he's the oas or something!"

"It's oas_is_, which you would know if you actually did something other than applying lipstick in Earth Sciences."

"You're such a bitch, but I guess it runs in the family, huh?"

I step closer to her and back her up against the wall. "You ever speak about my mother like that again, and I will steal my dad's gun and practice shooting on a picture of you, are we clear?"

I am surprised by my behavior, by my words, by the fact that I am standing up for myself. But she just makes me so. fucking. angry. There's the slightest hint of fear in her eyes, and I back off, dismissing her before she says, "So if Edward chose me over you, you'd be okay with that?"

"I'll sob my eyes out."

"I'm sure you will. You're just a plain little girl pretending to be tough. But I guess Edward knows that and that's why he hasn't made a move. Guess what? He knows you're single, and you're _still_ the best friend. Guys like him never end up with girls like you."

"Fuck. Are you _trying_ to pick a quarrel? You're saying that like I wasn't aware. But I am. Your point?"

"No, I'm just saying, you don't even admit to yourself how hopeless your crush on him is. Not unless you'll become like a normal girl."

"If a layer of makeup made me like you, I'll never touch a makeup kit in my life. You make the rest of makeup users look bad."

I've struck a chord, and don't I know it. She puffs out her chest and steps closer to me. But she's so much shorter than me, so I tower over her, and I'm not the least bit intimidated. But that doesn't mean she wouldn't know how to strike me with words. She knows exactly how to do that.

"He wouldn't choose you if you were the last woman on Earth."

"Did you ask him?"

"Oh, please."

"Did you?"

"You have about as much chance with Edward as you do winning the Seattle Summer Marathon."

"You didn't, did you."

"It's so obvious. The likes of Edward Cullen always go for the popular and beautiful ones."

A crowd has gathered around us.

"Oh, really? What else do the likes of Edward Cullen do?" A man's voice challenges. "Please enlighten us."

Alice pales. Edward stands a few feet from us, hands in his pockets, calmly regarding Alice. He's looking down at her, only her, with an expression so serious it gives me chills. He doesn't run a hand through his hair, he doesn't rub his neck, he's completely composed, and yet, I've never been so intimidated by his expression in my life. I'm sure emotions are raging inside his calm demeanor.

How much did he hear?

Alice nervously wrings her hands together and averts her eyes from his. "Well…"

"No. I'm curious. You prove to be an expert on the topic. What else do the _likes_ _of_ Edward Cullen do?"

"I mean—I just meant—"

"You were right about one thing, though," Edward says, still completely composed. "The _likes_ _of_ Edward Cullen go for the beautiful girls."

Edward tosses his back bag in front of the lockers.

"Fuck it."

Edward grips my hips, presses me against the wall, encases my face with his hand and runs his thumb across my cheek. He breathes in my ear and whispers something, but I can't decipher the words. I shiver. He secures his left hand on my neck, his right on my back, and presses me against him. He nips my upper lip with his before pressing his lips on mine, and suddenly, he's frenzied.

I slide my hands behind his neck to tug at his hair, and the moment I return the kiss, I hear a rumble from his chest, and I just cannot not snicker. He pulls back a bit, amused, and locks eyes with me before diving for my mouth again. His kisses are wet and warm and fuck, he's amazing. I don't know why I haven't jumped him before. I let out an involuntary sigh when he places a kiss underneath my jaw. I don't want to stop, but of course, we have to.

We're both hyperventilating, Edward smiles a toothy grin next to my lips, and I mirror it. His forehead touches mine. He pecks me on my lips—still pressing against me—before he turns his head and looks at Alice, who is just standing there in shock.

"You were saying?"

I just—I just fucking love this man, you know?

The crowd whoops and claps, but seeing as the show is over, they disperse and return to their own lives. Alice huffs and leaves. I'm overwhelmed.

Edward doesn't move. Instead, he presses me against the wall and wraps his arms around me. I sigh in his embrace.

"I'm sorry I had to do that," he says. I'm not. "She's just—she can't say shit like that. Are you alright?"

I nod, and I'm sure he feels it.

"How much did you hear?"

"I wouldn't choose you 'if you were the last woman on Earth,'" he answers against my ear. "Why? What else was there?"

"Nothing," I murmur, still breathy from his kiss.

"Listen, Bella—" he starts, but the bell rings, and he curses as he presses his lips against my neck. "We need to talk."

Aren't those the words you're supposed to be scared of? Because, presented with them, they sure do sound frightening. But when Edward pulls back and sees my expression, he backtracks. "No, no! Not like that. It's nothing bad. Or, well, it depends on what—" The second bell rings, and Edward becomes bashful as he looks down at me and makes eye contact. He looks a bit frightened and a lot fragile. "Please don't run."

The hallway has almost emptied.

I offer an encouraging smile. "I promise I won't. We have lunch. I have things to say, too, and I think you'll like them."

His lips pull into a smile. "Oh, yeah?"

"M'hmm," I answer, raise myself on tiptoes and place a small kiss on the side of his lips. He can interpret that however he wants. His eyes are closed when I pull back, but he opens them, and there's confusion but so much affection.

"What did that—"

"I need to run, I have Spanish and I suck at it."

"Talk to you later?" He asks with the most adorable smile on his face.

"Later," I assure him, grab my bag and run. In Spanish, thank god, we're working in pairs, and the teacher has temporarily left the room when I enter. I sit next to Eric—he's pretty good at Spanish—and try to focus on the task at hand and not the conversation that's about to change everything between me and Edward. It does make me slightly giddy, though, the thought of what is to come, and I'm more distracted in a classroom than I've ever been.

That's why it takes me a while to realize, there's something wrong with Eric. Seriously wrong. Not health-wise—he looks just fine—but the empty, detached look in his eyes scares me.

Five minutes to the end of the class, when some people are leaving, Eric and I still have a few exercises to do. I observe him, the acne on his face, the glasses, the gawkiness. Nothing is different except for the freaky calmness on his face.

"How're you, Eric? How's your girlfriend?"

He stares in the distance before making eye contact, and his expression is empty. "She left me."

"Shit. I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond, he simply stares at me with the same empty eyes. The strange atrocity makes my stomach roll. I can't understand it, but it scares me.

"Eric?" I ask. "Are you alright?"

Finally, he folds his arms, leans closer to the table, and looks me dead in the eye. "Why do you think Newton's gotten away with the shit he's done?"

I blink at him. "He's good at choosing victims who he knows wouldn't dare say anything?" I guess. "No evidence?"

He leans back against the backrest with more confidence I've ever seen his wear yet his eyes are vacant. It's freaky.

"What would you say if I told you you're wrong? On both accounts."

"You—you've got evidence?"

He shrugs. "I might."

"Are you serious?! What kind?"

He ignores my questions.

"Bella, can you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Take care that the evidence reaches the right news outlets… when I'm no longer here to do it."

"What do you mean? What do you mean you're no longer here? Eric?"

Eric offers me a smile so cold and detached it gives me goose bumps. He pats his bulging pack bag, and stands up.

"Nothing. You're safe," he says, "Newton & Co., though? Let's just say he messed with the wrong guy."

I jump up. "Eric, no. Whatever you're planning, don't do it."

He plants that same emotionless smile on his face, steps aside, and starts walking. "You're safe," he repeats, and exits the classroom, leaving the door open.

Well, fuck.

Is he planning what I think he is? What if I misunderstood him? What if I didn't?

I throw my bag over my shoulder, enter the corridor and start walking in the direction I saw Eric go. With trembling fingers, I take out my phone and press 911. I observe the students, laughing and sitting and talking on the phone, and my finger hovers over 'dial' button, but I don't press it. I don't want to cause unnecessary panic if I'm wrong. Instead, I remember Mr. Stephens—he'll know what to do.

He picks up immediately.

"Marshal Stephens? This is Isabella Swan, Charlie's daughter."

"Hi, Isabella. How may I help you? Not to be rude, but I'm in the middle of something, so could you make it quick?"

I can hear rustling and talking in the background.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but I didn't know who to turn to, since Charlie is out of the state," I reply, taking a breath. "How should I act if I have reason to believe there is the possibility of a school shooting in my school?"

Some more rustling, the sound of a door closing, and complete silence.

"These are serious allegations, Isabella," he replies, deathly serious.

"I'm aware of that."

"You have my attention. Are you safe? Is there anyone already in your school with a gun?"

"I—I don't think so, but I don't know. I don't know if the guy I think might do it even owns a gun."

"What's his name? I'll run a background check."

I look around in the hallway to make sure I have no-one's attention. There aren't too many people around, most are already in the cafeteria. I walk in that direction.

I clear my throat. "Eric Yorkie."

"Did he threaten you? Did he say anything? Why do you think he'd have a reason to shoot anyone?"

"He's been bullied by the same guy who—oh, fuck."

I stop just after entering the cafeteria. I can clearly see Eric leaning over his bag, and there it is. The position of his right hand, the furtive glance around the oblivious students around him, the cold, detached expression. He's eerily calm. Not one student has noticed. Not the teachers, not anyone.

No-one except for me is looking in his direction.

Holy fuck.

"What is it, Isabella? What happened?"

"I'm in the cafeteria." I gulp. "Yes." I let out a breath, whispering. "He's got a gun."

"Isabella? Do you hear me? Slowly back out of the cafeteria, do not hang up on me, do you hear me? Stay calm! Police is on their way! I'll be there in a moment."

I let out a broken breath. He keeps saying my name, but all I can see is Edward having a silent argument with one of Michael Newton's hanger-ons, Shawn. Emmett, thank god, is on the other side of the cafeteria.

Everyone is completely oblivious to Eric's actions.

And fuck, Edward is right in front of him, right next to Michael Newton, and if Michael Newton is the person Eric is going after, he might—intentionally or unintentionally—shoot Edward as well.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"Isabella?" the voice at the other end insists. "Isabella? What's happening? Has he shot anyone?"

I feel like the entire situation is an out-of-body experience. I quietly place my phone—without hanging up—on the table next to Eric's and walk over to him. Slowly. Calmly. He hasn't shot anyone yet, and I can stop this. If anyone can stop this, it's me.

I'm determined. I'm calm.

I stop right in front of Eric, and I realize, this might literally be the last moment of my life. Everyone's oblivious. I take a breath. I can feel my heart beat.

I love you, Edward.

"He's not worth it," I whisper, and he looks up. He pushes his glasses back, completely unfazed by the fact that I had noticed what he was doing when nobody else had. Did he feel like he was invisible in our high school? What had Michael Newton done to him?

He gives me a slow, detached smile. There is no humor in it.

"Oh, but I think he is," he replies, apathetic as ever. "That's just it, Bella. This isn't painful enough for the likes of him."

"Don't do this, Eric. Don't do this," I quietly insist, assessing my chances of just—kicking the damn thing from his hands, but just when I bounce, so does he, and now he's standing, straight in front of me, the gun pointed right at me.

"_Everyone_ _get_ _down_!" I scream.

Hell breaks loose. There's screaming and rustling and crying. Everyone in line behind me has frozen on their spots because Eric gives them a warning glance before pointing the gun at them for a second. And then, he points it back at me.

It's loaded.

Deathly silence has fallen on the cafeteria, and everyone—except for the ones in line—is on the floor.

"I'm not like you, Bella. I'm not like you. I can't deal with _his_ shit as well as you can," he spits, now pointing the gun straight at Michael. Eric takes a step closer to him.

Michael Newton is pale, very pale.

"I want everyone to know that this faggot—" he tilts the gun a little towards Michael, "—is gay."

He pulls the trigger, and Jared falls to the ground. People scream.

Holy fuck.

He's really doing this.

Eric locks eyes with me, but only points at Michael now. They're a few feet behind me.

"I was wondering, Michael, do people know what shit you've pulled on me? On little Bella here?" he motions at me. Everyone stays silent.

"But I'm not like her. She's fucking strong, you know? She's too nice to want revenge. But I'm not. So this one's for you, Bella."

For a fraction of a second, I can see the muscles on his forearm tense as he looks straight at Michael, who is half-hiding behind Edward.

_Fuuuuck_.

Another fraction of a second, and I throw myself in the way, kicking his gun down, but it goes off, and I'm coughing blood. I feel pain sharper than anything I've experienced. Excruciating pain. I fall. There's warm liquid all over my hand, and someone's hands encase my face. I focus on his clear green eyes. He's got tears in his eyes.

"Fuck, Bella—" Eric lets out a cry. "Not you—Bella—_fuck_. Why would you do that?!"

Four consecutive shots later it's quiet. I can feel the distant sound of a siren, and my eyes struggle to focus on Edward. He's holding the back of my head in his hands, rocking above me and pouring my face with wet kisses.

"Why would you do that, Bella?" he whispers, and I've never heard his voice so pained. "Why would you take a bullet for me?"

A strong hand presses on the side of my stomach, and I'm too weak to keep myself conscious.

* * *

**A/N:** And then she died. The end.


	18. Code Name Vivaldi

"Emmett, imagine something deep and meaningful because you don't get a quote this time. You brought me no books." — Isabella Swan

: :

For a while, my vision and memories are a whirl of reality and imagination. I awake to strange faces. I awake to see passing lights on the corridor ceiling. I awake to strange sounds.

Undetermined amount of time has passed when I finally come to. I do not know how long. It's not so much the light that grabs my attention. It's the noise. Confusing noise. I wonder who's in my room in the middle of the night, but when my right forearm touches a cold, metallic pipe, my eyes snap open. It's a side rail. I'm in a hospital bed in a dimly lit, white-walled room. I'm the only soul in it.

It's dark outside. I feel hot and dizzy but painless.

My back feels tight, as if someone wrapped a duct-tape around it. When I start to raise my hand to lift the blanket to see what's causing the sensation, I find my wrist bound to the side rail. Interesting. My left hand, however, is unbound, and I manage to lift the blanket only to be looking at my light blue johnny gown. I let the blanket fall.

The persistent whisper loudens. I hear an argument right outside my door, and much to my surprise, I recognize one of the voices as dad's. The minute I'm able to differentiate his words from each other, he appears on the doorstep, panting as he attempts (and fails) to lower his voice.

"—to have the audacity to ask to see _my_ daughter after it was _your_ son who shot her? Bella has yet to wake up. You have _no_ _reason_ to be here. None."

"With all due respect, Mr. Swan, just let me—"

I clear my throat. I don't feel coherent, but this has to be done.

"Dad?" I ask, and when he doesn't move, I make another attempt. "Dad!"

Ouch. Yelling is out of the question.

Both men fall silent. Dad turns, and while he smiles at me with such relief his entire body relaxes, he starts to close the door on Eric's dad's face.

"Dad," I say, and clear my throat again. "Give me a moment with him."

"But, Bella, you don't understand, this is—"

"Ralph Yorkie. Eric's dad. We've met. Can you give us a moment, dad?"

Clearly taken aback, dad lets go of the door. His face is red, now from embarrassment rather than anger, and I can tell he's hurt by my actions. He walks to my bed and crouches to be on the same level with my face. "Why? His guilt is none of your business. You should rest," he says, pushing back my hair. There's affection and worry in his hands. "How are you feeling? You have to rest."

"Just five minutes," Mr. Yorkie mutters. "That's all I ask."

Seeing that I want this, dad sighs, nods, and leaves us alone. Ralph Yorkie is a gawky, tall man who wears glasses and bears an uncanny similarity to his son. He takes that single chair and sits. His clothes look impeccable, a boring-looking beige suit and a tie, but it's the expression that gets to me. It's the pain in his eyes. His lips twitch when he pushes back his glasses and eyes my hospital bed.

Uncomfortable, he shifts the chair. "Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be here."

"I don't care. Did Eric make it?"

He rests his forehead on his palm, and his lips twists in a way that gives me the answer. I purse my lips and feel my throat tighten.

"He was a good boy."

He nods, and looks at the wall across from him as his eyes get glassy. "I'm—sorry. For bothering you. I already have the press on my front door and then the—the—funeral arrangements…" his voice breaks. "But I—needed to ask. He only ever mentioned you on a good note. You have to know that. He never meant to hurt you—or, or—"

"I know."

He nods, relieved. "I noticed—something was wrong with him on Saturday. Really, really wrong. He was moody. He walked funny. I tried—tried to see what could've—we got into a fight, and he shouted something that stayed with me. He said you'd know. He said you had—evidence? Of what? Isabella—what do you know? Can you help me understand why he'd—why he'd—"

I gulp, and feel empty. It's hot. I'm sweating.

"He said something to me, too, about evidence, but that was right before what happened in the cafeteria. I'm sorry. I have nothing. Whatever he meant, I don't have it."

"But what _happened_? I just need to—_understand_."

"I might be wrong."

He stares at me with his bleak, grey eyes. "But?"

"I think Michael Newton might've raped him."

His face pales as he, unblinking, keeps eye contact with me. His mouth twitches and he slumps, holding his head in his arms. Suddenly, he gets up, lets out the shout of a broken man, and throws the chair out of my window. A gust of freezing wind hits us and rain starts falling into my hospital room. I'm covered in shards. For a fraction of a second, Ralph Yorkie makes eye contact, and he seems to be just as surprised by what he did as I am.

Chaos ensues. Nurses are calling security, dad is cussing at Mr. Yorkie, I'm being taken out of the hospital room. In the corridor, I see Edward lie on a bench. He's been woken up by the noise, and when he sees what's happening, he's immediately on his feet.

"Bella?!"

Mr. Yorkie doesn't resist. His unfocused and unblinking eyes show no sign of an occupant in his body. When he's in the corridor, letting the security take him out, I let out his name.

"Mr. Yorkie?"

It takes him three seconds to focus his eyes on me, and when he does, it's like he's surprised to find himself next to me.

"When is the funeral?"

He blinks. "Next Friday."

"I'll be there if I can."

He locks eyes with me, and I'm not sure if I'm looking at the same man who entered my hospital room a few minutes ago. "You need your rest," he says, and a second later, the security has turned the corner and taken him along. Nurses shoo my family away as they prepare a new room for me, one with another (empty) bed. Not until they've re-attached a heart monitor do they allow people in, and boy, my room is suddenly a high traffic area. A squatty, brown-haired doctor named Jon Heilbronner arrives with a few nurses to take a look at me and ask questions. He wants to know if I'm ready to talk to the policemen. I'm not. Not yet. All I can think about is either seeing dad and my brother and Edward again, or sleeping. I'm exhausted.

Finally, I convince the doctor I'm coherent and awake enough to see my family, and he lets me. Even with a fever. But when Edward follows Emmett, a ginger-haired male nurse puts a hand on his chest to usher him out.

"Immediate family only."

I don't know if it's the panic or worry in Edward's eyes that makes him do it, but my dad presses his lips together. "I'd rather you let both of my sons talk to their sister."

The nurse looks doubtful. Emmett throws a hand on Edward's (much higher) shoulder, shaking him. "Come on, don't we look similar?"

Like night and day, actually.

"Ah, just kidding." Emmett grins, messing with Edward's hair. "This one's adopted."

If you only knew, Emmett. (Or I guess you do, huh?) The man, unsure as to what just transpired, eyes them both, but decides it's not worth the fuss. He leaves.

Emmett borrows two chairs from the corridor while Edward sits on my left, silently intertwines his fingers with mine, and presses and holds his lips against my hand. He slides it along his jaw and keeps it there. I watch his face, the shadows under his bloodshot eyes and the concern with which he's observing my own face. I tilt his head back so that he'd lock eyes with me, and when he does, I see all the doubt and affection. He's still not sure about my feelings.

"Will you stop?" Emmett says, pretending to be aghast. "It's like watching porn with clothes on."

The tips of Edward's ears redden.

"Would you prefer we took our clothes off?" I ask.

Dad clears his throat. It's strange to be in the same room with him. He's wearing black cargo pants and an army green sweatshirt with the words 'U.S. Marshal' on it. He's got a distinctive stance, a different expression, and not just because he's so muscled he could do three hundred push-ups on the spot if he felt so inclined. Or lift us all out of the room and then paint his nails with the other hand. No, that's not it. He's changed.

"Why are you here, dad?"

He ruffles my hair and presses his lips in a line. "Because my little girl got hurt."

"But how do you have permission to be here?"

"With an emergency like this one, they couldn't say no." Dad shifts his chair closer and his lips twist. He presses them in a tight, trembling line, and swallows. He's at the brink of tears, and for a minute, he takes deep, shaky breaths, refuses to make eye contact and runs his fingers through my hair. He says nothing. Emmett gets very uncomfortable with dad's emotional side and ignores him, but he, too, starts to avoid my eyes. Edward holds my hand against his forehead and looks down. I'm only able to see the top of his head. If I'm not mistaken, my hand feels wet, too.

I do the stupidest, bravest thing you could imagine, and all I've done is made three of the most important people in my life weep by my bed.

"I see we're all happy holly jolly about me waking up," I say. "So, what date is it?"

My dad lets out a shaky, unexpected laugh. "Wednesday, the third." He looks at his wrist watch. "Five minutes to seven. AM."

I shut my eyes for a moment, just to gather energy. I'm exhausted. My stomach still feels tight, and it itches, but when I start to scratch it, I re-discover that my right wrist is bound. I'm still hot. Maybe dad will throw a chair out of the window, too, if I told him about Michael Newton. I'd love some cold air.

"When did you get here?"

"After midnight," he replies, gathering himself. "I took the first flight from Atlanta, and by coincidence, I happened to take the same plane with Carlisle. He didn't even know about the shooting. All I knew was that you'd been shot. I didn't know how seriously or why, or if Edward made it or not."

"That sounds like some jolly time on a plane."

"Indeed." He lets out a sharp huff. "But we're not here to talk about me. How do you feel?"

"Strangely, I feel like I've been shot. I've never felt this way before."

Emmett lets out a laugh, and even dad chuckles.

"But seriously?"

"I feel fine. Tired and hot and itchy, but fine."

"You look like shit, Bella," Emmett says.

"Always with the compliments."

Dad nods. "You should get some sleep."

"Wait." I force my eyes open. "I want to know—"

But Dr. Heilbronner enters the room and interrupts, insisting that I need rest, which I probably do. There's a lot I want to know, but dad caresses my hair and promises to be in my hospital room as soon as possible. Edward is still sitting and rubbing his forehead against the back of my hand (just like he did during the entire length of our conversation) when Emmett and dad are almost out of the door.

"Edward? You coming?"

"She really needs her rest," my doctor says, and Edward nods. He rubs his face, stands, and leaves a lingering kiss on my forehead before making eye contact. His eyes are red.

"Get some rest," he says with a broken edge to his voice. "I'll be right here."

"Can we talk tomorrow?" I ask, squeezing his hand. There's a shadow of anger under the overwhelming concern in his eyes, and even as it's gone in a second as he nods and offers a smile, I just know he's not happy with me. I imagine myself in his shoes, and immediately, I know that behind his worry, he must be furious. I know I would be. I just need to be remotely healthy for him to express it.

"I will eat my stethoscope if that's your brother," my doctor says as he closes the door. He drags a chair closer to me, and smiles. Two of his front teeth are crooked. He's in his fifties or sixties, of mixed heritage, and there's something good-natured in his amber eyes. I like him.

"This'll only take a couple of minutes, and you'll get to rest." He injects fluid into my arm, sticks a thermometer in my mouth and draws my blanket down to listen to my lungs. "Does it hurt to breathe? Is it difficult or uneven?"

I shake my head. He draws the blanket up and presses his lips together. Everyone is giving me tight-lipped smiles lately. I'm starting to fear the reason.

"I can't figure out if you're the luckiest or the unluckiest out of all of you," he says. I raise my eyebrows, desperate to know who the others are. He takes my thermometer and writes in what I assume to be my file. "Your temperature's picking up again. Get as much sleep as you can. If it gets too painful, push this button." He points at it. "Nurses will give you pain-killers. Whatever you do, don't stand up. If you need to use the bathroom… don't. Nurses are used to this."

I feel hot. So hot.

"But—but I can feel my legs. I can. Pinch them. I can feel them."

"Yes, but for you to continue feeling them, you'll have to tread carefully. Until further results. It's a cautionary measure." He offers that small but genuine smile. Aiming to assure me. I don't feel assured. I feel quite nauseated, actually.

"I have a spinal injury."

"Yes. A minor spinal fracture, and all evidence shows it's inherently stable. The bullet grazed your vertebra, thoracic spine, just above your thoracolumbar junction. T10, if you will. I personally believe you'll make a full recovery, but until I have proof, please stay in bed."

Yeah, like I'd threaten my ability to walk. Or run. Ever again.

He turns to leave, but I persist. He can't tell me I have a broken spine and leave.

"Doctor? Can you—just tell me what the bullet did. Did you get it out? How much time will it be before I can go home? What are my chances of—you know, full recovery?"

He turns, but does not sit. "If the bullet hadn't gone straight through you, you'd no longer be here. That's a fact. But it did enough damage. It went through the bottom of your left lung, grazed your stomach and vertebra, and when it grazed your spine, a piece of the bullet broke off. You went to surgery Monday evening. But yesterday, you scratched your stitches wide open, and got _Acinetobacter baumannii_ infection. A nurse will give you carapenem in every five hours. Frankly, I'm surprised you're as coherent as you are, given the circumstances. Once the pain killers start wearing off, you will be under a great deal of pain."

I feel hot and dizzy and sleepy. Not painful, but uncomfortable.

"Is that why you bound my wrist?"

His crooked teeth show as he smiles. "Yes. It's not a standard method, but it worked. We need to keep your fingers out of your stomach for a while." Again, he starts to leave, but before he has shut the door, he peeks his head in, smiling. "You should know that if it wasn't that non-brother of yours keeping pressure on your wounds, you'd probably be dead."

The door shuts. I'm left alone with my questions, and for an odd reason, I imagine each question like it's a wheat head. Or maybe I'm dreaming. I think I watch rain fall as the dark blue outside starts to turn black, and suddenly, I'm running in the middle of a wheat field, scorching sun burning my face and each wheat head shooting its kernels on the soil and producing thousands of others. Each of them asking me things I don't know.

Noises wake me up, several of them. I'm cold. So cold. It hurts to breathe. I feel a soft, rough pattern against the back of my hand, rubbing back and forth against it. Voices argue. I hear something about doll mixing and kidney failure, and I think I hear Carlisle's voice in the argument. I can't follow. I'm cold. My abdomen feels tight. Itchy and tight. I focus on the warmth of rough skin against the back of my hand.

The next time I open my eyes, it's dark outside. I'm no longer cold, but it hurts to breathe. Two figures sit next to the window, one of them hunched, holding his head in his hands and staring at his feet. A lean, elderly man sits next to him. He's got white hair.

".40 caliber Glock 27," Marshal Stephens says in his calm voice. "Nothing extraordinary. Ralph Yorkie has a license."

"And a maniac for a son who uses fucking dumdums, Al."

"Hollow point bullets have been used before. You've used them."

"Don't compare me to a seventeen year old psychopath who shot my daughter and fractured her spine."

Neither comments.

"Have you seen the videos?" Mr. Stephens asks. "Isabella knows why he did it."

Dad hums.

"She called you, Al, didn't she?"

"Saved a lot of time. If she hadn't, Mr. Yorkie would've killed six people instead of three. Your daughter is a national hero."

Dad tilts his head back to look at Mr. Stephens. His lips are twitching. "But what's the use? Why be a hero if this is the sacrifice she'll make for it? She's not a girl for a wheelchair. She's not. She's too full of life. She—she has her whole life." He presses his lips together so tightly his face starts turning red. "I wrote a statement to Glynco."

"And?"

"I'm staying here."

"Don't make rash decisions, Charlie. You heard Dr. Heilbronner. She's likely to make full recovery."

"What if she doesn't? What then? Do you expect me to be in Georgia while she learns to accept the fact she'll never walk again? I can't."

"She'll recover."

Dad ignores the Marshal and stares at the door. I close my eyes.

"Did you know she ran last year's Olympic B standard in one hundred meters?"

"I did not," Mr. Stephens replies. "That is very impressive. I didn't know she ran track."

"She doesn't. But her coach told me she could be good. Really good."

"She still could be."

Dad says nothing.

"Is he here?"

"Playing cards with Edward."

There's a pause in their conversation. I watch dad shift and stretch.

"Discuss the matter of Glynco with Isabella. It seems to me she would want to be included in your decision."

Dad sighs and nods. "But if I'm going back, I need people here working on Michael Newton's case. I know there's no evidence of anything and it seems like a huge misunderstanding. Nice bloke, dad is a teacher, mom works for the government, decent grades, heading to Yale. But he had to do something."

"You could start with your daughter."

My dad's shoulders slump. He rests elbows on his knees and stares at his feet.

"Or do you already know what he did? Has your daughter told you?"

"No," dad says, turning his head to look at Mr. Stephens. "But Emmett knows. To what extent, I don't know."

"Did you question him?"

"Yes. So did the police. He admits nothing. But the comments he makes… he knows. He has to."

Distant voices, stretchers rolling and beeping echo in my room.

"The entire country is waiting for Isabella to get well," Marshal Stephens says. "It's quite remarkable."

"That's the power of YouTube," a hoarse but pleasant female voice says. An olive-skinned, athletic-looking woman steps into the room. Marshal Stephens stands up and gives the woman a warm greeting.

"Get back to me when Isabella is awake, Charlie. I'd like to have a word with her."

He steps out of the room, leaving the woman, probably in her mid-twenties, standing in front of dad. She's clad in faded jeans, a long sleeved top and a ginormous scarf. She eyes me. I'm looking at her reflection on the window and she doesn't notice I'm awake. Even though dad doesn't acknowledge her, I feel like I'm intruding. This is the last chance for me to let myself known before I'll hear things not meant for my ears. But I'm paralyzed. (Don't hold your breath—I am, of course, speaking metaphorically.)

"You shouldn't be here."

Not intimidated by dad's harsh tone, the woman steps closer to him until she's a few feet away, and crouches so that she can see his face. "And where, may I ask, should I be?"

"Not here."

She takes a step to the left. "What about here?"

"Not there either."

"Now that's unfair," she says and squeezes his knee. She looks up at him, sighing. "I hate seeing you like this."

"You don't say," dad replies. If I had any more energy, I'd laugh. The woman doesn't move. I can see her eyes dart to his feet and back to his face.

"Sarah," dad whispers, but says nothing more for a while. They stare at each other.

"Maybe one day you'll realize pushing people away only leads to a bitter and lonely life."

"Maybe I'm okay with that."

Before I figure out how to make my presence known, dad has pulled the woman in his lap and they're kissing. I expect my heart monitor to go haywire, but it doesn't. I'm no longer attached to one. I'm incredibly curious as to who the woman is, but more importantly, how and why dad has kept this from us.

"I'm not trying to replace her," she mutters. Dad says nothing.

I wish an invisible fist would knock me out and flush me down the drain because I don't want to interfere. I don't want to hear this conversation. It's not meant for my ears. I've got the curiosity of Einstein when he discovered that E equals m c squared, but I want dad to be able to tell me on his own terms. Not like this.

They stand and walk to my bed, and I see no other choice but to close my eyes.

"Does she still have a higher risk of kidney failure?"

Dad sighs. "Carlisle told me she should be fine. But yes. It's the drugs against the bacteria she caught, I think."

"You have a brave daughter."

"Your father agrees."

"That's because it's true."

"I know."

"Not even people like us are always capable of risking with our lives when our loved ones are in danger."

"I know," dad repeats, and I can feel him squeeze my hand. "Let's give Edward some time with her."

"Is that the red-haired one? That boy is quite something."

"I think he would've donated his heart if they'd asked for it."

"I think he already has."

I open my eyes when I hear their footsteps draw away, and I see dad holding two of her fingers as they leave. Is she a Marshal? Is she Mr. Stephens' daughter? When did this happen?

I've changed hospital rooms. I'm in a bigger, light green room, and there's a man in the bed next to me. I can't see his face, but he's got potato brown hair, he's fairly tall, and his leg is in a cast. I listen to him breathe (he's asleep,) but I'm afraid to lift myself to see his face. I'm afraid to find out I'm not able to.

I wiggle my toes, though, and I seem to be fine.

Edward enters. He has already sat beside me and encased my hand in his when he makes eye contact and realizes I'm awake. He lets out a breath, smiling with his eyes more than mouth, and holds his jaw against my hand. He's followed by my doctor and a few nurses who ask questions and take my temperature and listen to my lungs. Edward observes them and offers a smile when we make eye contact.

My back is tight, and while breathing is uncomfortable and painful, it is to be expected, they say, and give me painkillers. It's nothing I couldn't handle, it just makes my breathing shallow.

The doctors leave, and nobody says anything about Edward being here, so I assume it's fine. He drags his chair closer to me, circles my palm with his thumb and rubs it against his rough jaw. I have questions. So many of them. But I want things to be clear between us, and we have time for answers.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hungry. Scared shitless. But mostly hungry."

He squeezes my hand. "You have no reason to be. You'll be fit as a fiddle. They all think so."

It's funny how an unnecessary conversation like this could be so necessary. Building the foundation for the conversation that can't be held in anymore.

For a few seconds, I observe his green eyes and how they linger on my lips and cheeks and eyes. I see the upset in his. I need to drive it out of him. I want nothing between us before the next step. I'm intimidated by the uncertainty of my spine (physical and not metaphorical, just to be clear.) If the worst happens, should I expect Edward to stay by my side? The answer, of course, is no. I wouldn't do that to him. I wouldn't expect that of him, and not because he's not capable of self-sacrifice of that degree—he is—but because I want better for him. I want the best for him.

But he deserves to know how I feel and make the decision himself. I do, after all, have a high likelihood of full recovery. Right. Pink unicorns. Pink fluffy flying unicorns.

"I heard you saved my life out there," I start. "I'd give you a fiver, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't cover what you did, so I believe thanks are in order."

He runs both of his hands through his hair. It leaves my palm empty.

"Fuck."

He's a step away from actually expressing himself.

"Ah, so you want a fiver? I can give you a fiver. If you wait a bit."

"Fuck, Bella! Stop. Just stop. You saved _my_ life, you took a fucking bullet _for_ _me_ and _not_ the other way around!"

"I was there, yes," I reply. "Thanks for clarifying that for me."

Edward blinks at me. His jaw is tight and he's tearing at his hair, staring at me.

"_Why_? Why would you do that? Do you know just _how_ stupid that was? That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen anyone do!"

Imagine that I actually tell him, and he decides that because of the risk of my injury, I'm not worth it. I think I'll be able to feign indifference for less than a minute. So I decide to let him express his anger. To postpone telling him. Because maybe he doesn't want me if I'm injured. Because maybe he starts seeing what I used to see and turns away. Because I can think and talk that I'll be okay with him leaving if he doesn't want me with the potential of a spine injury, but in reality, I'll be so gut-wrenchingly heartbroken I won't know what to do with myself. What if he isn't interested in me, long term? What if I'm a project of self-esteem, and as soon as I'm fixed, he moves on?

What if Martians built a castle for a cat? I'm a moron.

Edward presses his lips together, leaning closer. He's tearing at his hair. "Why?! Why, Bella?"

I shrug. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Nothing is obvious with you! It's like you're a fucking invisible labyrinth! Was it because of what happened—before? Did you feel bad about that?"

"You're a fucking moron. Of course it was because I'm secretly in love with Newton!"

He pales and staggers back as if the answer I gave him didn't just work against anything he knows about me. I might as well have repeatedly stabbed his chest and left him on the side of the road to bleed to death. He slumps and violently tears at his hair. He stares at a spot under my bed, and his voice is hoarse.

"So that—that—what happened in the morning, that meant nothing to you?"

I think he might actually cry. Shit. This isn't going anywhere.

"Edward," I start, patiently and slowly and with no deadpan that he doesn't get. I'm starting to think he just lacks wires for my deadpan. "Edward, what happened in the morning—"

I can see his eyes brim with tears. He's not listening.

"Edward?"

He makes eye contact and takes a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah? Just—give me a second. I've just grossly misunderstood everything that I thought was between us. Give me—just a moment."

"Edward, stop it. Here's the thing. I'll stop being all snark snark, and you stop being all—"

"Bella," he rasps. "Give me—a second. You've made it perfectly clear you don't feel anything for me. No need to rub it in."

"Edward! I just took a fucking bullet for you, how much more proof do you need?"

"I thought—you said—it wasn't for me."

"I take a fucking bullet for you, and you think it's not for you. For who then? Michael fucking Newton? He can rot in hell. And fuck you, Edward! I fucking love you, you fucking oblivious bastard!"

He blinks like a slow stoplight, slow and amazed. So do I. Sure, I wanted to let him know I'm open to the possibility of a relationship, but that doesn't mean I should shout I'm in love with the guy in the middle of an argument. Especially before we've had a conversation about the damage done to my spine and how it affects his feelings for me. I don't want him to do this out of guilt.

"Fuck," I curse, covering my eyes and forehead with my palm not to see his face. "I'm so sorry, Edward. I'm sorry. Jesus fuck, please. I'm so sorry."

I feel the bed dip where he sits. He strokes the back of my hand, wraps his fingers around my wrist and pins my hand away from my eyes. I'm beetroot red, I'm sure. I can't look at him.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because I didn't mean to—"

He leans in and kisses me. His skin is rough as if he hasn't shaved for a week (which is probably true), and he's sliding his thumb back and forth against my cheek, against my jawline and neck. He's kissing with fervor, panting like he's trying to breathe through my lungs (which are not too capable at the moment, mind you.) His breath is warm, and I don't think he planned for this because he doesn't taste like gum. He tastes like affection and the butterflies in my stomach. When he stops breathing through my lungs, I'm panting. He holds his forehead against mine before whispering in my ear.

"If you're bullshitting me right now with those words, I will change my name and move to Japan." He withdraws, just enough to make eye contact, and he's got the most adorable yet unsure smile on his face. He leans closer to my ear. "Tell me you meant it."

He pulls back, still making circles on my cheek with his thumb, and locks eyes with mine. Since he started kissing me, I've blushed to the roots of my hair. I'm panting. And the one thing I'm still incapable of doing is being sincerely unembarrassed about (talking about) feelings, so I watch my fingers draw a pattern on his forearm.

"I did. I meant it." I lock eyes with his. He lets out a relieved laugh and grins against my lips.

"Thank fuck." He runs his hands through my hair and looks at me like he wants to scoop me up in his arms and never let go, but he simply grins, wets his lips and leans in for a kiss. I feel like I'm flying, and while I'm sure a large part of it is because Edward parts his lips against mine like he wants to permanently attach himself to my lips, I'm also dizzy. Lack of oxygen will do that to you.

"Edward, wait."

He stops, but rests his forehead against my cheek. "If you just remembered that you were, in fact, bullshitting, pretend you weren't. My heart can't take it."

I laugh. It sounds odd as I hyperventilate. "No. It's just that—I can't breathe."

He pulls away. "Did I hurt you? Do you need the doctor?"

"I'm fine," I assure, holding my hand out. "Come here. I just need a second to—breathe."

"Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Positive. I'm just not used to being kissed like I mean the world."

Concerned but very pleased with himself, he beams, holding my hand in both of his. He searches both of my eyes and leans closer to my face.

"Bella, I—"

"Shh!"

He eyes me, curious. "But I—"

"Shh!"

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want you to say anything before my spine situation is clear. If the doctor tells me that I'll never walk again, or if I can and it gets painful or difficult, or if I walk with a limp, or whatever, I want you to let me know when it's too much for you."

"Bella."

"I'm serious. Think about it. Imagine I'll never be able to walk again, or walk properly again. I know you think I'll be fine, but what if I won't? I don't want you to stick with me out of guilt. Because you would. You'd probably make that sacrifice, but I don't want you to. You deserve someone healthy. It was my choice to throw myself in front of that bullet, and you owe me nothing for it. I just want you to think this through tonight and tell me tomorrow because if you give me false hope, it'll only be more difficult to let you go later."

"Bella."

"No. Tell me you'll think about it. Really think about it. All the what ifs and the worst case scenarios, and give me your answer tomorrow. I promise I won't hate you if you choose not to do this with me. All I ask is that you'd still be my, you know, friend. At least until I'm able to accept this."

"Bella," he huffs, and starts pronouncing his words like he's speaking to a child. "You'll be okay. You will. Dr. Heilbronner thinks so, my dad thinks so. You will run a marathon and hop as a glowworm and climb trees in the middle of the night. You'll be fine."

"I promised you once that I would never settle, now I want you to promise me that you won't be with me out of guilt. Please."

"Fine." He presses his lips together, not pleased with what I'm asking him. "But it's not necessary."

"Come here," I tell him, and he sits on the edge of my bed again. I pull him into a hug, and when I kiss him, he responds tenderly. He's smiling.

"Give me your reply tomorrow," I say.

He licks my bottom lip and tugs it. "Not necessary."

"Please. Tell me after it's clear what's happening with my spine."

"It won't change anything."

"Edward."

"Okay," he replies, sighing. "But it won't change anything."

Just when he grins against my lips, a throat clears. Edward pulls back, and we turn to look at my Drama teacher, munching on banana chips and grinning at us. "Who needs MTV when you've got stuff like this?"

"Peter! What happened?"

"Your friend Eric is what happened," he replies. It is odd to see his face without all the metal. "Good to see you up and about." He raises his eyebrows at Edward who offers a nod and holds my hand against his jaw.

"What happened to your leg?"

"A shattered femur."

"Shit. I have a fractured spine, though. I win!"

He shakes his head. "I heard you're going to be just fine," he says. "So how did this—" he motions in our general direction. "—happen?"

"Ah, you know. I decided there's no point in having a guy as hot as Edward as my best friend unless I have the benefit of kissing him. I led him on for no reason for so long I figured, hey, I'm great at pretending, let's pretend ugly, insensitive guys like him go for a beauty like me, you know?"

"Bella," Edward warns. I laugh. There's a lot to be said between us, of course, but as I look at him, he offers the most adorable grin and encases my hand in both of his before kissing the back of it. I pretend to wipe it off. He grins and takes back my hand.

Incorrigible bastard.

Apparently I'm well enough for visitor regulations to be less strict. Carlisle and Esme enter my room, followed by my doctor; and Esme, upon realizing I'm awake, drags a chair closer to me, clenches her fist around my ankle, and starts sobbing. Tears and gasps and a grimace on her face. Edward observes her semi-amused and semi-concerned, and Carlisle does that deep breath thing to calm himself. He offers me a smile. Esme attempts to speak, but the only thing I'm able to decipher is 'never going to walk again' and 'my little boy's life.'

"Esme," Carlisle says, holding her shoulder. "You're scaring her."

"But she—but—and then they—and my Edward—and fractured spine—"

"I told you, not every fractured spine ends in a wheelchair." Carlisle tells Esme and looks at me. "You'll be just fine, Bella, I promise."

"You make bold promises," my doctor looks up as he writes on Peter's file. "You are very likely to make full recovery, Isabella. But I wouldn't promise anything. Not yet."

"When will you get the results?" Carlisle asks him.

"Any minute now."

A nod is shared, and Carlisle looks at me. "Knowing you, you'll have nothing to worry about. They're only taking precautionary measures."

Edward squeezes my hand, and I see my doctor raise his eyebrows as my brother and Jacob Black enter the hospital room. Dad follows with the woman named Sarah. They're not holding hands. I lock eyes with my coach, and he waves but drags a chair to the bed beside mine and sits. Peter turns to look at him, and while there's no physical contact, they start to have a silent conversation. It's common knowledge that they're friends, but I want them to have privacy. I want to divert everyone's attention. I look at my doctor, and he's eyeing the crowd in our hospital room like he wants to throw everyone out.

"Ten minutes," Carlisle states, looking at my doctor as if it were a question.

"Please," Dr. Heilbronner answers and leaves the room. I see dad look at Sarah as he intertwines his fingers with hers and as I happen to make eye contact with Emmett (who'd been looking in the same direction), we both immediately divert our eyes. I start laughing. I don't know why.

"What?" Edward asks, and everyone looks around to see the source for our amusement.

"Nothing," I answer. "Déjà vu. What date is it?"

"Thursday, the 4th of March," Carlisle checks his wrist watch. "A few minutes before eight PM."

"What did I hear about doll mixing?"

He frowns. "Doll mixing?"

"Yeah. Doll mixing and kidney failure."

His face clears. "Ah, polymixins. They're against the bacteria you caught. It's been known to cause kidney failure, but we're fairly certain you'll be okay. Your kidneys are fine."

"What's the deal with my spine?"

"Yet to be decided, but we hope you'll be on your feet in no time."

"Hope?"

"Dr. Heilbronner should have more information tonight."

He holds on to Esme's shoulders, and I observe everyone as they watch me shoot questions at Carlisle. Edward gazes at me, eyes alight with humor, and I have a feeling he wants to jump up, announce the new nuances in our friendship and kiss me silly. But he keeps drawing circles against the back of my hand and says nothing.

"So what happened after I so gracefully found a bullet?"

"Blood and gore, Bella," Emmett answers. "And a shitload of panic."

"Who did Eric wound? And kill?"

"Jared, you, Peter." He motions at him, and my coach and Peter immediately shut up. Mr. Black gets awkward and starts darting his eyes around, but nobody but Peter notices, whew. "Then Shawn and Michael Newton."

"And Newton?"

"Muscle wound in his shoulder," Edward says, kissing my knuckles. "Got home on the same day."

I haven't thought about what I wanted to happen to him, but facing him again as I go to school and knowing I have no evidence of what he's done doesn't sound appealing at all.

"And—Eric?"

"What about him?"

"Did the Police end him—or—"

"He shot himself."

"Fuck."

I'd hoped the police shot him. I shouldn't have. He clearly insinuated that he would soon not be with us. But for some reason, I would've felt better if he'd imagined himself living. Moving forward. Crawling through the shit that happened and moving on. But he didn't. He couldn't. I can't believe a guy I simply considered my torture buddy a week ago, a guy who seemed a bit awkward and a lot harmless, would bring his dad's gun to school with the intention of killing the people who harmed him.

I was wrong. I thought there were peer pressure bullies and cruel bullies, and that was it. I couldn't have been more wrong. So maybe there are those two groups, but then there are the bullied, the cornered ones, the people driven to the point of desperation. The people who crave for revenge. The people who can't untangle the shit alone, who are too inward to talk, who see no way of living with the way they've been treated. No way of moving forward.

No way out.

And it's not his fault.

"Why did Ralph Yorkie throw a chair out of the window?" Emmett asks. "What did you tell him?"

"He did what? When? Why?" Carlisle asks.

"I told him my opinion about what happened."

"And what is that?"

"Shit happened. That's what happened."

"So you know why Eric did—what he did?" Carlisle asks. Even Peter and my coach are eyeing me in silence. I feel the weight of my answer, whatever it may be.

"Probably."

A collective breath is taken.

"And?"

"I have no evidence."

"But what happened?"

"Shit happened," I repeat. "Carlisle." My voice is weak, and I clear my throat. "Do you think it would be possible for me to attend Eric's funeral next Friday? Maybe in a wheelchair?"

"Why would you want to go to the funeral of the psychopath who—!"

"Dad, no."

"He shot you!"

"He didn't mean to."

"Oh, that makes it all better," dad replies dryly. "I can see how that would solve everything."

"You don't know fuck, dad!"

Esme gasps, dad pales and I feel my eyes brim over from God knows what. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe it hurts to breathe. Maybe my back feels tight and painful. Maybe I understand that in a world filled with good people and bad people, there are none. None good and none bad. Just the people you care about who can make the wrong decisions, or the people who don't mean to hurt you but still do, or the people who are driven to a boiling point—and we all have it—who see themselves in a dark, circular, shrinking room with no way out, with nowhere to scream and nobody to listen. Maybe we imagine there's a deeper meaning to our life, and all our life really is is a series of events caused intentionally or unintentionally by people in shades of gray. None black. None white. Just gray.

Maybe sometimes we're closer to white, and sometimes we're closer to black. Shades change as our experiences mold us.

I don't know. All I know is that I've shouted at my dad at a fragile moment when my anger wasn't even aimed at him. I'm not really angry at him. I could be. I could blame him for not noticing or not paying enough attention or being in denial or whatever the fuck, but I can't. Because I was here, too, and I could've told him, I could've let him in, and I chose not to. It takes two to tango.

Because I thought silence was a sign of strength. Not showing how humiliated I am by the experience was an act of defense. And it is. Hiding my shame, hiding what happened, that's all self-defense. Not only because it will hurt me to see my family (and Edward) hurt when I tell them, it will hurt me, too. It will tear my wounds wide open and show them how weak I am. How weak I've been. It would make dad see that I am a master at hiding shit, and it would make him blame himself. I've blamed myself. Blame and shame and fear that if you show how weak you could be, history would repeat itself. I've bathed in those feelings.

Maybe, when I tell them, I think that I'm shedding white paint, but in reality, it turns black when they receive it. They'll want revenge. I could deny it, pretend I'm all white and shit, but I can't—I do, too. When you've been so deep you produce layers of self-acceptance and (lack of) self-respect, hoping for someone to teach you how to handle the pain without wanting revenge, you'll see people differently. Maybe there is a "real" me underneath it all, a girl perfect and unharmed who didn't have the traumas I did, but if there is, she wouldn't be the "real" me. Because I wouldn't be the person I am if I hadn't seen the things I did and drawn the conclusions I have. I would be someone different. Shame and guilt and all that shit, that's a part of me.

Through my tears, I watch dad make his way to my bed and crouch next to it. I press my lips together to hide what cannot be hidden. I'm crying.

"Why don't you tell me then?" he asks. "Show me."

I nod. I don't reflect on how my rude words made Esme or Carlisle or Sarah, whoever she is, see me. Before Carlisle leads Esme out, dad tells him a few words I can't hear, and he nods, glancing at me. Sarah makes eye contact with dad before they all leave. Emmett is in between, not knowing what to do, and Edward starts to stand up as well, but I shake my head at them and motion for them to stay.

Same with Mr. Stephens. If dad convinces him to look into this, he needs to know.

My coach is ready to exit the room, too, but I shake my head. I know he'd leave if I asked him to. But there's no point. He resumes to a quiet conversation with Peter. He knows a version of this story from Michael Newton's mouth. I don't know what he did, but I don't think this story ends with me or Eric. I don't think I've pieced together one tenth of this story.

"First off, dad—you're going back to Glynco. You're not staying here because of me. Regardless of what happens."

"How did you—"

"Dad, please. You're going back."

"Bella—"

"I'm serious. I've had enough of blaming myself. I don't need you start doing it, too. You need to go back. It's what you want to do."

"I'd never blame you."

"Then you'll blame yourself, and I don't want that either. You need to go back. Regardless."

"Tell me what Michael Newton did and I'll consider it."

"Don't put that kind of pressure on me. Please don't. It needs to be your decision in spite of my wants. It's the only way you'll proceed without regrets."

For five seconds, dad stares at me. Finally, he says, "Who _raised_ you?"

"The seven dwarves."

He lets out a breath and shakes his head.

"Is this something I'll need to talk to the police about?"

"Yes."

"Can I not?"

"Why?"

"I'd rather not have a repeat performance of telling it. I have no proof of what happened. To me or Eric. It'll look like I'm badmouthing a future Yale student. In case I do have to talk to the police about it—I'd rather not. If you want me to write a report or whatever, I think I could. But only if it's possible to keep it under the radar."

Dad rubs his forehead with his palms and holds his them on his eyes. He hunches.

"Whatever you wish."

"So I don't have to repeat the story?"

"We can work something out."

"Good."

"Would it make it easier if we recorded you?" Mr. Stephens asks. "That way you'll have no reason to repeat whatever you have to say."

I nod, and he leaves for a minute or two. I smooth the edge of my blanket for no other reason than to gather energy and let my decision sink in. It's time I told them. Maybe I'm not ready and it might not be the perfect moment, but it's time they knew.

Marshal Stephens returns and turns on the recorder. Edward squeezes my hand, and I take a breath.

"Not everything I say will matter."

"That's fine."

"It's a long story, and I've dissected the bejesus out of it with Dr. Hunter, so I could go on for hours. Bottom line, I got bullied a lot in middle school. So did Eric. Sometimes I'd end up locked inside my locker, sometimes it happened to Eric. If we weren't both in, we'd help the other out. There was, er, verbal abuse because I was, you know, underdeveloped. And weak. And awkward. Mostly, Eric and I got our lunch money taken away, so we'd sit in the school parking lot together and make up all sorts of stories about what we'd make them do if we were big badass CEOs one day and Michael Newton or any of the other bullies were our employees. Dumb, but it helped. We forgot our hunger, and sometimes—"

"You never said—"

"Charlie," Marshal Stephens says. "Let her talk."

"Closer to summer, we'd walk to Eric's dad's office just across the street and get cookies and stuff. I never took much because I didn't want to draw attention to how hungry I was. Ralph Yorkie and his colleagues always treated us well. Asked about you, dad, that sort of thing. Sixth grade wasn't so bad. In seventh, when it became clear—"

Dad is pale. "You were going _hungry_?!"

"Charlie," Mr. Stephens mutters, motioning for me to continue.

"So in seventh grade, when it seemed I was going to be a perpetual boy forever, the fact that it was easy to bully me while my dad was the chief of police became a sort of challenge. Like, how far could they go before I ran to my daddy and told on them? They were determined to find out, it seemed, which of course ensured that I never did. I just had to learn—not to care. Got coke poured on my books and stupid sticky notes on my bag and my clothes cut open after P.E., that sort of thing. Once, a rumor spread that I stank, so I washed and rubbed myself to the point where my skin started peeling off. I did it for months. It hurt a lot. Silly stuff, really.

"I don't think I considered Eric a friend in middle school. We wouldn't have started to communicate were it not for our shared experiences, as insignificant and dumb as they seem now. Looking back, though, I think we were the closest friends the other one had. But it was more like a friendship based on mutual horror than any shared interests. If he had a lunch box and it didn't get taken away, he shared it, and vice versa. We got along. We didn't talk much, other than to cuss at Michael Newton and imagine his gruesome death, but obviously, we couldn't fight him.

"During middle school, I think only our Music teacher noticed and wanted to tell our parents, but—knowing that if the word got out that we were running to our daddies for help, the verbal abuse would be endless—we assured her it wasn't as bad as it looked. That was the only time any adult noticed or acknowledged what was going on.

"It wasn't all horror. Sometimes Eric and I got to eat lunch together when Michael Newton wasn't around. There were days when both of us managed to go under the radar. But I clearly remember a Monday at the beginning of eighth grade when Eric arrived to school all haggard and shaken. He didn't talk much usually, but he didn't say a single word the entire week, and had the same vacant look in his eyes he did this Monday. Monday after that, he started talking again and kept asking me these cryptic questions. He wanted to know if Michael "did that shit" to me, too. I thought he meant the usual. He also wondered what would happen if he brought his dad's gun to school and shot him right in front of everyone.

"I remember this because I went along with his jokes. Because that was our way of coping. We always imagined horrible stuff happening to him, but I didn't think he meant it seriously, because I never did. The black humor just helped me imagine that we live in a world where people give a shit, where an adult or a fellow student would step up and say we weren't different. That bullying us wasn't justified. That karma works. That Michael Newton wasn't all what he seemed to be. But nobody who aims to seem superior by hurting another person or is desperate to fit in thinks it isn't justified—so, in our case, I think the students justified it by thinking and saying that we _were_ different. When there is a person bullied by everyone, you do what others do because otherwise you'll cease to be in the sidelines. You'll be the target. Nobody wants that. So you notice when someone behaves differently, or is secluded and weak, and we were. We both were.

"Either way, I've seen the same look in Eric's eyes before, only this time it was serious, so I called you, Mr. Stephens. But I stalled. I refused to believe he'd actually do it, so I lost a few precious minutes. If I hadn't, maybe everyone would be alive and unharmed. I'm—so sorry. I had the power to stop him, but I couldn't, and now he killed himself as well. I'm—I wish I'd been quicker."

If dad were paler, he'd be see-through.

"You saved three lives, Isabella. You alone. Don't apologize for anything," Mr. Stephens says. "But please, continue. Do you think all this bullying is what drove Eric to do what he did?"

"Well, I—I can't be sure."

"But there's something else you suspect."

"Yes."

"And?"

"I think Michael Newton raped him. And I might be wrong, but I don't think it was a one-time occurrence."

A collective breath is taken, but Mr. Stephens simply eyes me. "Do you have reason to believe so?"

"I didn't see it before, but—based on how he behaved when he missed a couple of days of school and seemed so full of vengeance when he returned, he behaved just like I did when Newton… well, when I finally started to suspect what it was that made Eric so vindictive."

"It's okay if you can't, but could you elaborate? No pressure."

"I—I think so."

"You don't have to."

"No—I think it's time," I reply, taking a breath. "So, one night, when I started to walk home from school, Michael Newton and Jared and a guy I couldn't recognize were drinking on the side of a deserted warehouse. I always take a shortcut there because it's quicker. This time, my Drama took longer and it was almost dark, so I couldn't see them before it was too late. And the thing with Michael Newton is, you never know if he's going harm you until you see if he's got company—he's always ignored me when he's alone. At first, he seemed to be, but when I got closer, I saw that he wasn't.

"It started with them throwing cigarette stubs at me and teasing me about when I'll run to my daddy to tell on them. I can't remember what I responded, but I managed to piss Newton off, and next thing I know, they shove me up against the wall and hold on to me as Newton unzips his pants and—and—I couldn't fight him—they laughed—and there was no one to hear me scream and cry—so he forced me to—to—fellate him, I choked and it—I couldn't—"

A crack is followed by the sound of breaking glass shattering on the floor. Dad is red-faced, and blood starts dripping on his broken phone from his now empty palm. He's breathing through his nose. Emmett calls for a nurse, but dad refuses, and Edward squeezes my hand so hard it's almost painful. Or maybe it's me. He doesn't look any better than dad.

"It's okay, Isabella," Mr. Stephens says in his calm voice. "You don't have to continue."

"I want to—I mean, there's not much left to say. I figured I could bite him, and I did—drew blood, too. The pain distracted him enough to—draw away from me, and I used their surprise to twist my hands and crawl out, and then I—ran. I left my bag and everything, and just ran. Spent a few days vomiting, didn't even have to pretend to be sick to look sick, and then… went back to school. Saw Eric. I said nothing, he asked nothing. For some reason, though, I felt like he knew what happened. I avoided Michael Newton like the plague, and so did Eric, and we—existed, together. Forced each other to cope. Never spoke a word about what we suspected had happened to the other. Kept avoiding Michael Newton, stopped hoping for an adult or a nice student to stand up for us, and… moved on."

When I don't say another word, Mr. Stephens turns off the recorder. Edward shifts his chair. Now that I've finally gotten it all out, I feel relief. Pain, but so much relief. I'm aware of how much it hurts to breathe, of how tight and uncomfortable my back feels, but I could be flying, too. Maybe I am.

Dad's chair falls when he stands and clenches his fists. He's panting. "Why did you never tell me any of this? You told me you weren't bullied! You told me you got along with everyone!"

"In present tense, dad. I'm not. Not anymore."

"You should've told me!"

"Charlie," Marshal Stephens says. "It will not work in her favor, or in yours, to make her feel guilty about something she cannot change."

Dad is reddening further, and when he looks at Emmett, I feel like he's about to shout his lungs out, but instead, his voice is torn. "You _knew_."

"Not to this extent," Emmett says, still hunching and leaning his elbows on his knees. He rubs his face and makes eye contact. I imagine he wants to exit and go for a good three hour run.

"But you never thought to mention."

"It was not my story to tell."

Dad's fists start shaking. He reddens to a color only a Swan could reach.

"Can you give me a moment with my daughter," he says. "All of you."

"Charlie, in your current state, no. Isabella needs to rest. She's got enough to deal with without your input. Sleep on it. You have time."

Marshal Stephens, the voice of reason, eyes dad, the voice of emotion. Dad opens his mouth, and I'm sure he's about to cuss or shout at him, but instead, he motions for them to step outside. He walks over to me, presses his lips together and caresses my hair.

"I'll be right back."

He leaves. Edward keeps rubbing his face against my hand as he stares at the floor. I draw a pattern against his rough jaw with my fingers. He makes eye contact, and there's not a hint of accusation in his eyes. Just pain. Anger. Mostly pain.

"I never knew," he whispers. "About your middle school, or exactly what that—that motherfucker did. I never knew."

"I'm good at that."

"I wish you weren't."

Edward gets up. He leans closer, cradles my head in his hands and lets his lips hover above mine. He breathes on my mouth and plays with my nose. "This changes nothing."

"That's because you're a noble moron."

He smiles and presses his lips on mine ever so slightly. "But I'm your moron."

"Really?"

He smiles with more his eyes than mouth. "Really."

"Do you have a pen?"

"Why?"

A light blue marker hits Edward right against his temple, and he looks up. Peter shakes his head. "You guys are gross."

I offer him a grin before turning back to Edward. "So, how much do you like your shirt?"

His eyes are alight with humor as he takes off his sweatshirt and reveals a grey tee. "What do you have in mind?"

He knows that I want to write on it and yet he leans closer, leaning on side rails as he looks down and grins. I mirror it, and as his chest is just above my hands, I grip his bicep and ruin his T-shirt. When I'm done, I throw Peter's marker back at him.

"There. You asked for it."

Keeping his position above me, Edward looks down at his T-shirt and beams a smile worthy of a Crest commercial, leaning closer. He places a kiss on my nose.

"Bella's properfy, huh?"

"Eat shif, Edward."

He grins. "This T-shirt is never getting washed again. Ever."

"You repulse me."

He laughs, cradles my neck and leans in for a kiss. But we're grinning, so it's us pressing our wide smiles together than an actual kiss. Edward moves on to the side of my jaw and neck. I pant.

"There's something I've always wanted to tell you," I say, pushing him back. He grins, and I can see he expects me to get all feeling-sy on him.

"You love me?" He has the most elated smile on his lips.

"No. I had a sex change operation when I was five."

He bursts out laughing. "You are ridiculous."

"And amazing. Like, totally."

"You are."

"Totally."

He's just about to lean in for a kiss when a throat clears. Edward throws his sweatshirt on his shoulder and squeezes my hand. He looks at my dad, pecks my lips, and whispers, "Talk to you later."

I smile. Dad's eyes linger on the words on Edward's T-shirt as Edward stands, looks dad straight in the eye and nods at him. Dad nods back, and if I'm not mistaken, there's humor on his face. Jacob takes something with wires out of his pocket, throws it at Peter, and squeezes his hand ever so subtly before waving and leaving. He closes the door.

Dad takes Edward's place. There's a bandage wrapped around his right palm, and a few band aids covering the other. He opens his mouth, but can't say a word. Peter has, apparently, gotten his hands on an iPod, and a song starts blasting through his ear pads. I could be mistaken, but it sounds like_ Teenage Dirtbag_, and when both dad and I stop to stare at him, he pretends not to notice as he nods to the beat and takes out a cross-word puzzle.

Subtle, Peter. Very subtle.

Dad turns his attention back to me. "I take it you're an item now?"

"I don't know about that, but, yeah. Things are going well. Don't hope for a wedding yet, though. If I don't make it—intact, I'll let him go. That's the way it has to be."

"How do you know he'd go, though?"

"I'm a good bullshitter. I can figure something out."

Dad says nothing as he draws the chair closer. I observe him. His lips twist the same way Ralph Yorkie's did, and he wraps his fingers around my wrist. My hand looks pale and fragile in his. Dad takes a deep breath.

"What—did I do wrong?" he asks, almost a whisper. "Bella?"

"You did nothing wrong."

"God, I didn't even—" he starts, but swallows and stares at my hand in his. "Suspect. You never even hinted—nobody said a word at school. You always came home all cheerful. You never let on, Bella. You _never_ let on—and now… If I had known. If I'd known, we could've taken you to Emmett's middle school. I could've—I would've talked to the teachers. I know you don't think much about my conversational skills. And we don't—we don't really talk much, do we? Maybe that's why you never felt comfortable telling me. But I would've helped. You have to believe that."

"I know, and I do."

"Why did you never—it would've been so easy to take you to the same middle school where Emmett went. He would've taken care of you."

"I can take care of myself."

"Sure, that's why you—" he stops himself. I see the source for my habit of sarcasm in a situation where I feel angry or hurt. Dad sighs, rubbing his face. "I know," he says, defeated. "You've been doing it for years. But if you didn't want to talk about how severe the bullying was, why didn't you at least suggest attending Emmett's school?"

"I had Drama with Mrs. Pope at North Cedar High. It kept me—I don't know. It gave me hope. And I couldn't have left Eric. I mean, we weren't best friends, but maybe there are experiences in life that bind you to the person you shared it with. But not romantically. Just—kind of like with war. The people you go to war with, by default, understand you without words. How you feel, why you act the way you do and your basis for comparison. Middle school was kind of like our war, you know? In high school, even though everything changed and I changed and we didn't communicate as often, we'd still greet the other in the hallway and appreciate the fact that the worst had to be over. Or so we thought."

"And then when—when Michael what's-his—"

"Newton."

"When he—that time he—"

Dad struggles, lets go of my wrist and rests his forehead on his palms. His fingers make eight lines of brown hair stand on end, and when his shoulders sag, he looks up at me. Lips pressed together, he gulps, and the sides of his eyes crease. I think he's about to force a smile, but instead, he slumps and his face crumples. It's a silent, tearless sob.

For seventeen years, I've lived without seeing my brother or dad at their most vulnerable, without ever having seen them shed a tear or lose control of their emotions so thoroughly they forget my presence. And now, during those last four months, they've let me see a new page of the book they are, and I've let them see mine, and we're all discovering that we are not the books we've thought. Maybe it was always open and you never caught glimpse of the cover. Or maybe you saw the cover and never really thought of opening it. Or maybe it was always there for you to see but you never really looked. Maybe that's when you grow up—you start to look.

Peter continues to pretend like we don't exist. I couldn't be more thankful.

"Dad."

He makes eye contact, and his eyes are completely dry yet his face twists further until he covers his face and starts breathing through his nose. If this is what he needs to do instead of yelling at me for not trusting him in the right place at the right time, I'll let him. I wrap my fingers around his forearm. He straightens his shoulders but takes hold of my hand.

"Bella." His voice is hollow. "Why did you never tell me? How could you have lived with—with that?"

"One day at a time," I answer. "Either I lived with it or took the kind of action Eric did."

He stills. "You think you could've—"

"Dad." I sigh. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. It's not that Eric is any different in this story than me—we're exactly the same. The only difference is: his limits were either lower than mine, what happened affected him more, or he got treated even worse than me. Maybe a combination of those three. If what Michael did had happened to me repeatedly or if he'd actually raped me, would I have done what Eric did? Would I have been capable of starting a school shooting or committing suicide in front of everyone? Yes. I think we all are. It's just a matter of how far you can push a person before he snaps, and Eric got pushed too far for too long. He reached his limit and he—snapped."

He shakes his head. "I don't think you could've done what he did. You—you're different."

"We're exactly the same, dad. Eric is no different from you and me except for what he saw in life and how he responded to it."

"And you want to go to his funeral."

"Yes."

Dad sighs. He presses his lips together and holds my hand in a firm grip as his face colors. "That—fucker—did you say his dad is a teacher at your school?"

"History teacher."

"Does he know? If his son is the—how has that fucker not ended up in jail yet? How can he—does anyone know? What he did? How can—his parents live with themselves?"

Michael Newton paraphrased by dad as 'that fucker.' I'm okay with this.

"Maybe sometimes it's easier for parents to turn a blind eye to what's really going on with their kids."

Dad stares at me and grimaces. His features contort. "You must hate me."

"Dad, no."

"How can you not?"

I just want to hug him and all his self-blame away, but I simply squeeze his bandaged hand and offer a sad, pursed-lips smile.

"I am who I am, and it was my decision to not tell you. Not yours, mine. I never expected you to read my mind. I _wanted_ to keep this from you. It sounds awful, but if you'd started to fuss about bullying and shit, or focusing all your attention on my well-being, maybe I would've never really learned to be okay with being me, you know? I needed to fight my fights to become who I am. I don't blame you and I don't want you to blame yourself. It benefits nobody. I don't think teachers are to blame.

"Society? I don't know, dad. We're the victims of the society we live in, and maybe I could blame the entire school for not stepping outside the box and standing up for us or not acknowledging the problem. But I choose not to. Otherwise I'll spend my entire life being bitter about something that made me the person I am. Of course I want that fucker to pay. Of course I do. Now more than ever. But think about it—why do we live in a world that creates people like him?

"Why do we not teach people to search for help? Especially guys. Why do we still have that macho view of a strong man who doesn't speak about emotions? Or show them, in case they make others perceive him as weak? That's such bullshit. Okay, so Eric and I had shit happen to us. Would he have done what he did if he'd felt comfortable seeking help? Talking about it? Maybe—but maybe not. That's the difference between being so ashamed you channel your emotions into revenge, or a school shooting, and accepting that, alright, me being different and weak might explain what happened, but in no way justifies it. But it's possible to change, and accept, and move on. Nobody taught him that. Nobody taught him to have that faith.

"Because I had that. You and Emmett and Edward—and Dr. Hunter. So I make fun of shit and maybe we don't talk about the stuff that matters—but knowing that some things matter without having to blabber about it, that's important, too. I've never told you how important it is for me that you give me absolute freedom in my choices after high school—whether or not I choose to go to a university, and what I choose to study. But it is. It is so important for me to know stuff like that without us having to discuss the bejesus out of it. And sometimes it's the little things. And Eric? Maybe he had that, maybe he didn't. It could be so many things, dad. Maybe he felt repressed, depressed, whatever—but he never saw seeking help as a choice to be made, and that's the real problem. Because you cannot prevent shit from happening. The world will never be crimeless and perfect. But if there would be a way to deal with shit—especially making it crystal that searching help is not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength? It's important, dad. It's so important."

It hurts to breathe. My back feels like it's on fire. Dad is staring at my face, not seeing it, but a second or two later, his eyes focus on mine. His lips tremble. He holds my hand in both of his and keeps breathing through his nose. It's loud.

"I can't believe half of you is me," he whispers, wide-eyed but still struggling to hold composure. I let out a broken laugh because dad is so silly and I love him to pieces.

"That could only be a compliment," I reply. "Now, come here. I'm hug-deprived."

Dad smiles, and it's border-line sob, but he stands up and envelops me in a careful hug. I can barely put my arms around him, he's so muscled.

"You are such an intelligent young woman," dad whispers. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

It will take a while for the words to feel natural and careless, from both of us, but we're working toward it, and it's special because we're not used to it. Neither of us. Dad pulls back, but doesn't sit. He pulls his fingers through my hair. "I promise we'll put that fucker behind bars as soon as we can."

"There's no evidence against him and you're not a cop anymore."

"We'll see, and it doesn't matter. I have connections, and so does Al. I still want you to turn to him the moment anything is wrong. Anything. Carlisle is certain you'll be alright, and I trust his opinion."

"Does that mean you'll go back to Glynco?"

Dad takes a huge breath. "If that's okay with you."

"Of course. You love it there, I can see it."

He keeps caressing my hair. "Please, never keep anything like this from me. Ever. I don't care how uncomfortable you feel telling me or how inconsequential you feel your problems are. Please talk to me."

"I will."

"You must be exhausted. Get some sleep." He smiles and turns to leave. Peter is nodding to a beat I can't recognize as he continues to ignore us both.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"I forgot to tell you—if Mr. Stephens starts to look into the whole story, can you tell him Eric's girlfriend left him just before what happened? I don't know if it's important, but if it helps them understand, they should know."

"I'll tell him."

"Thanks. Can you send Emmett in, if he's still here? Just for a second."

He nods, and Emmett arrives. Like the rest of my family, he looks like he could use a shower and a bed to sleep in. He's exhausted.

"I need a favor."

"Am I relieved you're alive or what. So what do you need?"

"My diary. Go to Edward's place tonight or tomorrow or whenever, and bring it to me. I'll die of boredom if I can't write any of my shit down."

"Can I read it?"

"Like you wouldn't if I told you not to."

"Good point. So where is it?"

"My room, wooden desk, bottom drawer on the right. In a folder titled Titanic."

"Interesting."

"No symbolism about my life, Emmett. Edward hates Titanic. And bring me a book, too, will you? Any book."

"Understood. So how should I explain my sudden eagerness to visit them when they haven't invited me over?"

"Tell them you're getting condoms for me. Or a pregnancy test. You'll think of something."

"You're grumpy today."

"Try being denied solid food for three days. Tomorrow I'll be tearing paint off the walls and eating it."

He chuckles and stands. "It's good having you back, Bella."

"So you'll do it?"

"No hay problema. It's about time I repaid you for the nights you've covered for me."

"You're only nice to me because I almost died. I expect you to be a total asshole next week when I'm on my feet."

"Not to disappoint," he salutes, messes up my hair and smiles. "Whatever you do, don't switch on the TV. Your ego won't fit in the room after you've heard what they're saying about you."

"What? Why are they—what are they saying about me?"

"Ah, you know, this Isabella Swan girl is a total jerk and helped her friend kill everyone, and why has she not dropped dead yet, she needs to diiieee. That kind of thing."

"Sounds about accurate."

He shuts the door behind him. Peter is immersed in A-Ha's _Take on Me_, and I try to get his attention, but I don't have anything to throw him with, so I wait for the song to end.

"Peter. You can stop being all tactful and shit."

He takes off his ear pads and turns off the iPod, but doesn't let go of his crossword puzzle.

"Lingerie items, four letters."

"Bras. Something that I'm not currently wearing."

"Thank you for that piece of information. I very much appreciate it."

"Always at your service."

Peter puts down his cross-word. He turns to eye me, not saying a word, and I stare back at him. It's not that he's worn or looks particularly tired. Not like my family and Edward's. It's the lack of lip and eyebrow barbell and multiple earrings that emphasize the difference and make him seem vulnerable. As if I saw him without make-up for the first time, even though he doesn't wear any.

"I saw what you did there," he says. "Jacob is more grateful than he lets on."

"No hay problema. I should thank _you_ for—what you did. My dad doesn't wear his heart in his sleeve, but on the rare occasion that he does, he needs no observers to feel comfortable showing it."

"You are one remarkable girl, Isabella Swan."

"Words mean shit, Peter. Make me your girl of honor in your wedding, and I'll believe you."

He laughs. "Why don't you wait a couple of years."

"I'll hold my breath. And eat all your banana chips while I'm at it."

: :

"_Recent shooting in North Cedar High School in Kirkland, Seattle, has prompted renewed debate about gun control in the United States and a proposal for a legislation that would ban the sale and manufacture of certain types of magazines and semi-automatic firearms. The issue of gun control in the States is heating up again. Comparisons have been drawn between North Cedar High School shooter, Eric Yorkie, and Newtown gunman Adam Lanza, who were both reported to have been bullied at school. Videos of Kirkland shooting have been posted in YouTube, and with nearly eleven million views, they raise several questions. _

"_Does the girl who tried to stop Eric Yorkie, Isabella Swan, know exactly why he did it? If Michael Newton did, indeed, harm them, why would she have taken a bullet meant for him? While interviews with fellow students unanimously express doubt that Michael Newton, a senior heading to Yale in the fall, could've ever bullied anyone, opinions about Isabella Swan vary, and it is known at school that the two do not get along. But nobody doubts Isabella Swan's courage in fighting the shooter, and President Obama himself has…"_

"Pass me the bread, will you?"

"Butter?"

"Turn it down. They've been recycling this for four days now."

"…_is said to be critical, but our sources claim that she will never walk again. The police and press are waiting for her doctor to confirm that she is stable enough to talk to her and get answers, and answers—she definitely owes them to the world."_

The TV is switched off.

"Morons. She doesn't owe them a fart in the wind. I hope they replay this video when she's running the women's world record in a hundred meters."

"You think she'd take that direction?"

"She could. Girl's got talent."

"Opinions about her vary," Peter scoffs. "Who did they talk to—Michael Newton and Alice? Fucking Fox News. The only ones who still doubt who she took that bullet for."

"Wait until they realize Eric and Bella were friends. She won't be able to leave the house."

"How're things at school?"

"Starting to calm down. Everyone's waiting for Isabella to return. Mostly, it's buzzing with shock and curiosity."

"Did the press stop harassing Edward?"

"They've taken it down a notch after what aired yesterday."

They fall silent. I listen to the sound of hail beating against the windows and watch as the dark blue sky gets lighter. It can't be more than seven in the morning. Jacob is sitting on the other side of Peter's bed, holding a bag of gummy-bears out to Peter as they eat together. Their fingers are intertwined on Peter's stomach, and they end up throwing gummy-bears at each other.

"I will give you all my worldly possessions, Jacob, if you give me a green gummy bear."

Peter looks at me and smiles. "Morning, Bella. Slept well?"

"Like a dying monkey. How about that gummy-bear?"

"I think not. Not without your doctor's approval."

"Do you always follow the rules?"

"Do you?" he replies. "Wait, rhetorical—don't answer that. I do, yes, when I could accidentally kill my famous friend."

"I never knew you were so boring."

"Excuse me for trying to keep you alive, Miss Swan. You seem adamant in doing the opposite."

"Bite me, Mr. Gallaghe."

He laughs. Jacob gets uncomfortable with his proximity to Peter, but Peter keeps a firm hold on his hand and doesn't let it go. It's sweet. Between our beds, on a small table, is my diary, front up. You can see my sloppy handwriting.

Peter, noticing the direction of my gaze, says, "The Doc put it here late last night, just after Edward left."

"Did you read it?"

"If there is anything my granny taught me, it's that the inside of a girl's handbag, heart and diary are sacred and never to be messed with."

"I'm gonna send Mrs. Pope a giant ass chocolate for that."

"I don't know how much she'll like an ass-shaped chocolate, but she'll love you for thinking of her." Peter engages in food-porn with gummy-bears while I try not to drool. He says, "You've got the title all wrong, though."

"I think it is apt."

"It sucks. It hints at a whiny teenager whining about her whiny appearance in a whiny way."

"Told you. Apt."

"You want me to believe you spend your time whining about your life in your diary? Please."

"You don't believe me?" I ask, gripping my diary and holding it out to him. "Read it."

He looks at it. "No," he says. "I can't. It's yours."

I slip my diary under my pillow. "Such a gentleman."

He smiles. "A gentleman who's getting home in two hours."

"Really? That's brilliant! Is that why Jacob is here at this ungodly hour?"

"It's almost nine," he says. "Hardly ungodly. Do you know when they're letting you home?"

"Not a clue. They're acting like I'll be running laps next week, when in reality, I'm probably fucked."

I eat my jello, talk to the nurse who gives me painkillers and listens to my breathing, and watch Peter and Jacob interact. Peter is given crutches. He leaves me his ballpoint pen, a crossword puzzle, and a bag of gummy bears not to be touched unless Dr. Jon Heilbronner says otherwise. Jacob holds the crutches as Peter sits in the wheelchair Dr. Heilbronner brought. Peter's leg is standing out at an awkward angle as he faces me. He smiles.

"I hope to see you soon, Bella," he says. "You'll be on your feet in no time. Show 'em. You'll be on your feet sooner than your gummy-bears can sneeze."

"How many painkillers did you give him, Doctor? I think he's high."

Doctor Heilbronner, sitting on Peter's bed, gives me a brief, crooked-teeth smile.

"Bella—keep me updated about your spine and physical therapy, alright?" my coach asks, looking slightly awkward behind Peter.

"Sure thing, Mr. Black."

He smiles. "Jacob."

"Of course, Mr. Black."

Peter throws his head back and laughs, my coach grins at me, waves, and off they go. My doctor gives me a pursed-lips smile and stands. His eyes, good-natured as they are, get serious. "I'm afraid I have bad news," he says. "We discovered a smaller piece of the bullet above the one we managed to extract, and you're going on surgery tonight."

I close my eyes and sigh. "Does that mean zero gummy-bears for me today?"

"Yes," he answers. "You can drink water, but you can't eat anything before the surgery."

"Is it serious? Should I start writing my will?"

"Not life-threatening, but important to your recovery. If it goes well, you can—and should—start with physical therapy next week."

"And if it doesn't, I'll be paralyzed for life."

"Highly unlikely. They aren't operating on the actual spinal cord. But spine is vital yet so delicate, and no activity, starting from driving a car to sitting on your bed, is without risk. I'm confident you will walk again, but as to how much pain you'll be in or how long it will take for you to walk or run, that's too soon to guess. Your surgeon will prep you at five PM. He'll discuss the risks and aftermath with you. He'll be able to be specific."

He writes on my file. "Your dad is eager to see you. Do you want to rest or should I let him in?"

"Let him in, if that's okay."

"Of course," he replies, smiling. "I'll see you soon, Isabella."

Nurses are cool about dad visiting me, so I spend my afternoon with him. I'm curious about the specifics of U.S. Marshals Service, and dad gets this twinkle in his eye when he talks about it. I enjoy lying on my back and listening to him. Just like me, he's worried about the surgery I need, but I reassure him by acting more blasé than I feel. I make silly jokes, dad laughs, he tells me stories about his training and I laugh. I think he just needs the assurance that after all that happened in middle school, I'm alright. Still the girl he knows. I have no doubt that if it weren't for Marshal Stephens, dad would've showed me yesterday exactly how pissed he was at Newton, but I appreciate the effort he made. He's a wonderful man.

But here I am now. It's almost five PM and Edward hasn't arrived from school yet, with Greek yoghurt or otherwise. Emmett will stop by any second to take (read) my diary and keep it with him until my surgery is over.

Wish me luck, Emmett. Let's get that bastard bullet piece out of my back.

: :

_Saturday, the 20__th__ of March  
05:41 AM. Lying on my stomach on this special mattress for back conditions. Remembered Eric the way he's supposed to be remembered, but scared shitless about the evidence he left me.  
_

As you'd expect, I can't remember a thing about the surgery. I awake repeatedly early in the morning (I think,) and find myself attached to the monitors wearing an oxygen mask. It's daunting. I'm in a room with a few other patients but no windows, so I lack any concept of time. At one point, nurses arrive to check my vitals and ask questions. I nod. I shake my head. They don't take off my mask.

I wiggle my toes. I could weep with joy.

My surgeon arrives, too, and I think his eyes are smiling—he's wearing this disposable green mask, so I can't be sure. He listens to the nurses jabber medical lingo, jabbers some of his own, gives me a thumbs up and turns his attention to the patient beside me.

Dad and Emmett arrive. They're taken aback by my oxygen mask and by the fact they have to wear surgical masks. I'm unable to form long sentences with the mask on. It must look more serious than it is, because dad and Emmett treat me like I'm about to die. That is until Emmett pinches my knee, and I let out an impolite curse word followed by his name. He grins at dad. Cheeky bastard.

Soon, Edward takes their place. He crouches beside my bed to be on eye level and takes my hand in his. "I'm sorry I didn't make it yesterday. I wanted to come sooner, but Mr. Graham contacted me about the WWF project I'm volunteering for, and he—"

I squeeze his hand. "It's alright."

"Are you in pain?"

I shake my head. His eyes relax. "Good. Can you feel your legs?"

The blanket falls as I curl my toes, and Edward grins. "Brilliant," he replies, leaning closer. "I hate this mask. I wish I could kiss you."

"Sucks for you," I reply, and Edward laughs. A nurse comes to remind him that I need rest (they insist on killing me with boredom as opposed to back surgery,) so Edward leaves. Not until the evening do they take off my mask, and breathing is a bitch. Not like my lovely Ping Pong, who is a male dog. It's a bitch. The reattach the mask on me a few times before I'm capable of breathing on my own, and I get taken to the same green-walled room I shared with Peter, except now I'm alone. I can't imagine how people with a terminal illness live. I've been in this hospital for less than a week and it feels like a year.

Emmett has gone home to sleep, and I told Edward to do the same. Dad is leaving tomorrow afternoon and I won't be seeing him for another month. He's still here. Marshal Stephens has come to visit me, too. I observe them, Marshal Stephens with his lithe frame and fair hair, and dad with his newfound muscles and dark hair. The man with the reason and the man with the emotion.

"Someone broke in our house last night," dad says with no warning, just carefully observing me.

"Fuck. Are you alright?"

"I wasn't there. I stayed the night at Carlisle's because our place is freezing. I'm alright."

"What did they take?"

Dad takes a breath. "Are you sure you have nothing else to tell us about that fucker or Eric? Was there something you forgot to mention?"

"You're creeping me out."

"So there's nothing?"

"No, dad. Of course not. Why are you being like this?"

"Because—the thing is, they or he or she, whoever it was, tore your room apart. Took nothing that I can see, but perhaps you could if you were there. What could they have been looking for? Do you have anything at all that could be used against anyone—or that fucker, if this went to court?"

"Nothing," I reply, wide-eyed. "I mean, before Eric did—what he did—he told me to take care that the evidence, whatever he meant, made it into the right news outlets and hinted that he had it, but he literally gave me nothing more than that. Nothing to be used against anyone, expect—if it came down to it—my word against Newton's."

"Perhaps he wanted you to speak to the press about what happened to you in middle school," Mr. Stephens says.

"I—I don't know. We never spoke about it. I find it hard to believe that he'd want me to advertise our traumas. Maybe I could even bring Newton to court, but without evidence, he'll just walk out with his image bruised. Nothing more than that."

I hold dad's gaze. When I was little, I felt he of all people could figure out whether or not I was pulling his leg or speaking the truth, and that hasn't changed.

Dad nods. "I believe you."

"Thank you."

"But there's also this." He pulls out a new-looking Samsung, and there's a picture of my room, wallpaper peeled off the walls, drawers turned upside down and clothes all over the place. I turn my eyes away. I've eaten so little that even something as material and silly as my room torn apart makes me teary-eyed.

"No, not the room—the door," dad says, holding the phone in front of me. He shows the next picture, and in capital letters, the green graffiti on my door reads, 'LIAR!'

Dad gauges my reaction.

"Any ideas?"

"None. Did you take fingerprints?"

"I did. We'll get answers on Monday." He puts his phone in his pocket. "You have a package from Angela—I took it to Carlisle's. But that's not all."

"There's more?"

"Your room at Carlisle's was torn apart, too. Yesterday afternoon."

"Shit. And they didn't take anything?"

Dad shakes his head. "Again, I can't tell. It didn't seem like it."

I take a few deep breaths. "If—if this is done by Newton or someone whose interest it is that whatever evidence Eric had wouldn't see the light of day, I assume his room got torn apart, too."

"Do you know Ralph Yorkie's number?" Marshal Stephens asks.

"No," I reply. "But I could give you his address—or where he works." His gives me his iPad, and I find the address with street view on Google Maps. "Do you think you'd have the time to go and have a look?"

"Yes," he replies.

"But you're not a cop."

He chuckles. "Just like Charlie, I have been. I'm familiar with the territory."

Sunday morning, when I spend my silly time dreaming about Greek yoghurt and trying to play Sherlock Holmes with a cross-word puzzle to entertain me, Edward and his parents come to visit me. As always, Edward takes my hand in his and holds it against his jaw. But nobody is able to say anything of significance before dad arrives, shaken and clearly beside himself as Marshal Stephens and dad share a few words too low for my ears.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Your—I—our—" he stutters before taking a breath. "Our house burned to the ground. Only a fridge and an oven covered in ashes are left."

Blood drains from my face.

"Bella—if this is the lengths to which the people covering for Newton—or Newton himself—would go to make sure you wouldn't have any evidence of what he's done, I can't go back to Glynco. I can't."

"We can't be sure yet. You must have enemies of your own from the time you were a Police Officer, Charlie." Marshal Stephens takes a few chairs from the corridor, and they sit. "The timing, I have to admit, favors your theory, but it is too soon to be sure of anything."

"So we know it was arson?" Carlisle asks.

"We know nothing yet," Marshal Stephens replies. "It could've been an electricity problem. But with nobody in the house, when it's twenty degrees outside—with a house that hasn't had electricity problems for as long as Charlie's lived in it—it's hard to imagine the house setting itself on fire. Especially since it's been unheated for most of the winter. Investigation will show."

"Are you covered?"

Dad runs his palms across his face and sighs. "Replacement cost policy."

"Guaranteed?"

"Yes."

"Good," Carlisle says. "Until it's rebuilt, you can live at our place. If you need more room, I'm sure the Hales will help, too. We'll figure it out. Tell us how to help, and we will."

Dad nods at him. He rests his elbows on his knees, hunching as he stares at me without seeing me. So much is happening I can barely take it all in, especially since nobody knows how long it will take for me to be able to walk again. Or how much pain walking will cause.

"What about Bella?" dad asks.

"I can take her to and from school," Edward says, straightening his back. "I'll just take her by car. We already go together."

I wave my hand at them. "I'm right here."

"There has to be someone with her at all times when she's out of the house," dad says. "Early morning jogs, date nights, physical therapy, whatever. Always."

"Oy! I'm no longer two, dad. You can stop talking about me as if I'm in the other room."

He looks at me, lips pressed together, and sighs. "I know you. And because I know you, I already know the moment you're confined by rules, you will start breaking them. But this is serious. If someone would go to such lengths to destroy property out of fear that you have something—we'll make sure they can't go to those lengths with you. Because property is replaceable. You are not. Am I understood?"

"Dad, it's not like Michael Newton's gang will jump out of the nearest bush to attack—"

"Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if you happen to find yourself somewhere without Edward or your friends around you, you must immediately find them. Always let someone know where you are, Carlisle, Esme, Edward, Emmett or Al—always."

"Dad, don't you think you're overreacting a bit?"

"You keep traumas from me for years, shit that makes other people go on anti-depressants, and I'm overreacting?! Our house was burnt to the ground to keep you from having potential evidence! You took a fucking bullet to save Edward's life! And when within an hour from taking a bullet to save a life, my daughter makes _international_ news, and knows exactly what drove Yorkie to do what he did and might have the means to put the fucker in jail, it matters. We are talking about _your_ _life_, Bella."

Red-faced, dad pants, and when he opens his mouth again, it seems he could go on, but he doesn't. I expect to find him share a glance with Marshal Stephens, but instead, Edward puts a gentle hand on dad's shoulder and looks him straight in the eye. His voice is so low I almost can't hear it. "Charlie, we've talked about this."

He returns to my side.

Dad hunches and sighs as he looks at me. "You matter."

"I know."

"Do you, really?"

"Yes," I reply. "But dad—I don't actually have evidence of any kind. Clearly, they're looking for solid, physical evidence, and even if I had it, it's gone now. I have nothing but memories."

"But they, or he, is afraid you have it—and that changes things. Perhaps he could be pushed far enough to confess."

"We don't even know if it's him."

"He's the likeliest candidate, and I refuse to take any chances with you. Do you want me to stay in Seattle? Say the word, and I will."

"Dad, no. It would be no use. Nobody but me is able to get my legs back to work, just like you couldn't possibly spend every waking moment with me to make sure I'm alright."

Marshal Stephens gives me a smile so assuring I can't help but return it. Dad keeps a frown on his face. "You're absolutely sure you don't want me to stay?"

I sigh. "This is not a question of me wanting you here. Of course I want to spend time with you. But you only have a month left, and you love it there. You do. And look, everyone here is ready to help me out whatever happens, right?"

The Cullen family and Mr. Stephens confirm my words with such enthusiasm dad shifts in his chair. He avoids their eyes. "Thank you."

"No problem, Charlie," Carlisle says.

"Mr. Stephens, did you pay a visit to Eric's dad?"

"I did," he replies. "Just this morning. But he refused to speak to me. They're mourning. I'm not the only one who wants to have a word. Maybe he'd speak to you?"

"Perhaps."

Edward and his family leave to have lunch, and Marshal Stephens assures me I shouldn't hesitate to call him if I need anything before he, too, leaves. Dad stands. His flight leaves in a few hours.

"How are you feeling? I'm sorry we're overwhelming you with news. Maybe we shouldn't."

"It's alright. I'd rather be up to date than in shock later as I discover we no longer have a home."

Dad grimaces. "You're absolutely positive you don't need me to stay?"

"Yes."

"Because I would."

"I know. But you shouldn't."

Dad pulls out his phone and calls a cab. He steps closer to me and messes up my hair, just like Emmett usually does. "I couldn't be prouder to call you my daughter." He leans in to hug me. "I'm sorry I yelled—earlier. I'm not holding grudges because you didn't tell me about middle school sooner. I just needed you to understand you matter." He smiles. "You're a brave girl. I love you."

"Love you, too, dad. Take care of yourself."

He places a kiss on my forehead but it makes him awkward. "You too, Bella. Skype me and keep me updated about your progress."

"I will." I squeeze his hand before he steps out of the room and leaves me staring at the rain outside, wondering if I made the right decision encouraging him to go. But he needed to. He didn't say a word about Sarah, the woman I saw earlier, but maybe he's not ready. Maybe he feels guilty for loving another woman so soon after mom's death. I don't know. It could be a lot of things, and it's none of my business before he decides to talk to me about it or introduce us. Even then, it's none of my business.

All week, my spine situation has given me a taste of the surreal. I don't think it's fully sunk in yet. I haven't even had the time to be scared or depressed or angry—too much is going on. I don't know when I'll be able to stand or what it will mean, how much pain I'll suffer because of it, if I'll ever be able to run a marathon or join Mrs. Haldane's track team. I'm doing my best not to assume and not to be scared. One day at a time. I will heal, and in all likelihood, I will walk again. How well? We'll see.

Edward, upon seeing that I'm all alone, walks up to me, crouches next to my bed and starts stoking my jaw with his thumb. I close my eyes. I feel his lips press against mine, wet and warm. "Chocolate?" His nose rubs against my cheek as he nods, and I lock my hands behind his neck. His chest rumbles. I snicker.

"Jesus," he whispers, out of breath as he pulls away.

"Don't you dare. Nobody gives me chocolate." I lick his lips before he throws his head back in laughter and hides his face next to my neck. I'm panting. Edward frowns when he lets his face hover above mine and runs his fingers through my hair.

"You're sad," he says.

"Dad left," I reply. "I know that your first encounter with him wasn't all positive with him threatening to kill you and all, but he's actually pretty awesome."

"I know," he replies. "He loves you a lot, just like—"

"Don't."

He face gets conflicted, and he kisses the side of my lips. There's pain in his eyes. "Why won't you let me say it?"

"Because. Because everything's too uncertain. Sure, we can kiss now like it's no big deal, but when Dr. Heilbronner arrives to tell me that they didn't get that bullet piece out and my nerve endings are messed up and, sure, I can move my toes but when I stand, I'm fucked—when he comes to tell me all of that, I want to be okay after letting you go. I want to be able to patch myself together."

His jaw tightens. "I wouldn't let you go."

"You'll have to."

"I talked to the surgeon. They got the bullet piece out."

"That's irrelevant."

Edward presses his lips against mine, desperate and needy, sucks my bottom lip and smoothes my hair. He whispers against my ear. "I wouldn't let you go."

"Porn, porn, porn." We hear Emmett's voice as he enters the room. "Frankly, I'm surprised I haven't caught you two having sex yet. Also, if it helps, Carlisle and Esme will arrive any minute now."

He sits.

"I went to see our house, too. It's pretty bad. Like a war has taken place at the back of our subdivision. Some of it is still smoking and the place is covered in ash. A few investigators were walking in the rubble, too."

"So nothing is left?"

"Nothing," he repeats. "But if it was done because they think you have something? You're fucked."

"Gee, exactly the assurance I need."

"We'll look after you, though. Right, Edward? We won't lose sight of you at school. We'll make sure you're never alone."

"Cannot wait to see you watch me pee."

Through the shock of losing our home and pretending not to care as much as he does, he cracks a genuine smile. Edward's parents arrive, and I wonder how much nepotism is involved for my doctor to turn a blind eye to the amount of visitors I have all day. Not that I'm not grateful. Or maybe I'm well enough for the amount of visitors not to matter? Maybe. I do hope to get home soon. Attend Eric's funeral. Eat solid food. Spend time with Edward. Convince him to kiss me silly. Kiss him silly. Play with Ping Pong. Catch up with schoolwork. Look into the whole Juilliard business and dream about running.

Life. I miss life.

Dr. Heilbronner enters and shares a few words with Carlisle that I have no hope of repeating, all I know is that he's got a smile on his face, and after some shared medical jargon, Carlisle is reflecting it. He offers me a genuine, encouraging grin. Esme's hands clench around my calves.

My doctor flashes his crooked teeth. "Even as it will be tough to get you on your feet and we can't promise you'll be completely void of pain for the rest of your life, you're likelier to make full recovery than we could've hoped for. Depending on how much you're willing to work on yourself, you might even run track again. If everything goes according to plan, you'll be on your feet as soon as next week. You might get home on Tuesday. I'll talk to you about the specifics in the evening."

He smiles, shares medical jargon with Carlisle, and leaves. Everyone is grinning, but before Emmett can whoop and start jumping on me, or before I start to cry from happiness (I mean, hunger,) Edward beats them to the bunch. He stares after the doctor, dumbfounded, stares at me, still dumbfounded, leans closer and hovers right above my face. He tilts my head back and beams. "In your style."

"Say what?"

"So now it's okay?"

"What is?"

"Telling you," he answers, grinning. "I fucking love you, you fucking adorable girl."

I burst out laughing and hear Esme gasp before Emmett's laughter covers the rest. I pull Edward to a kiss and continue to laugh. "You're a fucking moron."

He grins, and there's a twinkle in his eye and love in his voice, and fuck, this man is mine.

"I am a lucky fucking son of a bitch."

"Didn't think you were related to dogs."

I think Emmett might choke from laughter. Edward's sweet mother is not only shocked by Edward's coarse language but also by what just transpired, and while Carlisle is shaking his head, amused, Esme is looking at us, mouth agape. Edward offers everyone a proud smile and steals a kiss. "Let's talk later," he says. I mirror his silly grin.

Sure, life is messed up, but Edward is here, looking like he's ready to burst with affection for me. The rest is trivial.


	19. Where the Cookies Are

"Look, look, I just can't take the pressure of all these omens anymore!"  
"Percy..."  
"No, no, really, I'm serious! Only this morning in the courtyard I saw a horse with two heads and two bodies!"  
"Two horses standing next to each other?"  
"Yes, I suppose it could have been."

— _The Black Adder, Witchsmeller Pursuivant, _Episode 5

: :

On Monday, my doctor and a few nurses help me stand. I listen to my shaky breathing as I hold on to them and cringe. If I had to describe the pain, I'd say standing feels like multiple blisters bursting in the middle of my back, coming in contact with water and running to my legs as I attempt to walk. My legs tingle. It's hard to tell if my left one is touching the floor because it's somewhat numb. I can't explain it. It's as if my leg couldn't decide if it's trying to take the stairs up or down, and doesn't want to tell me which one it is. For a half a minute, I stand, gripping their shoulders with my eyes closed. I want to cry. From happiness or sadness, I do not know. It fucking hurts to stand, but I _am_ standing.

"Well?" the ginger-haired nurse asks.

"Knock me out with morphine. Please."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Back. Legs. It's like tingling blisters or something."

"Tingling?"

"Pins and needles. Tingling. All over my legs."

I open my eyes to see them making eye contact, and it seems so full of hidden meaning I shut my eyes again. "Don't tell me you were wrong and I'm never going to walk again."

"No," Dr. Heilbronner replies. "But it will take time. Time and patience and a lot of hard work. Can you take a step?"

I take a breath so deep my lungs hurt (which doesn't take much) and focus all my attention on raising my right leg. I can. Through pain, I take a tiny step, maybe five inches, and as my foot lands, I grin at them.

"Did you see that?"

My doctor smiles. "Very good. Now try with your left."

I do, and while I can raise it, my idiot leg thinks it's taking a step upstairs. It's hard to tell when it touches the ground, and I face-plant into Dr. Heilbronner's chest before nurses get hold of me.

"Easy there." My doctor chuckles. "Good. Very good. You can lie down again."

"Wait. Let me try again."

I feel like a glove puppet or a stick figure. I'm painfully aware (yes) of my leg as I lift it off the ground, and will my leg to understand when it lands. I can see it touch down. My leg knows all the necessary muscles to move, but my body doesn't know how to react, and the nurses catch me.

"Wait! I can do it. I can."

But I can't. After my sixth attempt, it becomes clear that while I can move my legs, my left one doesn't like letting me know when it hits the ground. As I sit, pant and stare at my knees, Dr. Heilbronner assures me I'm doing incredibly well under the circumstances. I'm barely listening. They help me lie down. The moment they've left, I grimace and curse, trying to be the better (wo)man and the stronger girl and ignore the sting of tears in my eyes. But I can't. Despite Carlisle and Edward and everyone, including my doctor, assuring me that I'll be on my feet in no time and running laps and climbing trees, it is clear that learning to walk again might just be the hardest thing I'll ever do, and not just physically.

I keep my voice down and let the tears fall as I cringe against my palm and take deep, shaky breaths. It's not the physical pain, though that's brutal, too. Maybe I'm finally taking it all in, or maybe I realize the faith that I so adamantly willed dad to understand will be crucial to my recovery. I have to have faith, and I shouldn't let my first attempt at walking get to me, but fuck it, I'm exhausted. I'm exhausted from being exhausted, and that makes me exhausted.

At around eight PM, I do what I shouldn't do. I sit, holding my back rigid not to harm it and slip my feet on the ground. Gripping the edge of my bed, I slip entirely to the ground and stand. It's odd. I feel almost no pain, but that could be because Dr. Heilbronner changed the narcotics I'm on. Narcotic pain pills, whatever. Leaning against my hospital bed, I watch my feet and take a step. A tiny one. I raise my left foot on my heel, observing it, and start swinging it back and forth. It seems fine. I let it touch down and repeat the motion. After a while, I take a tiny step with my left foot, and while I'm a bit off-balance, I don't fall.

I take a look at the doorway: nobody's watching me.

Continuing with my snail-paced (and snail-sized) footsteps, I work my way to the other side of the other bed. I hunch as I hyperventilate and lean on it. After a few minutes, I walk back, snail-style. I've never been more aware of my back muscles. I sit. Minutes pass. I try to get used to how tight my back feels, and carefully, I lean against my pillow and lie down. I feel encouraged.

I can do this. I know I can.

True to his word, Dr. Jon Heilbronner lets me go home on Tuesday at one PM. He provides written discharge instructions and prescriptions for anti-inflammatory medications and narcotic pain pills and physical therapy. He warns me against constipation and nausea. He tells me I need to get a back brace—a simple elastic corset and not a custom molded body jacket, whatever that means; and tells me that since my surgeries didn't involve a fusion, whatever that is, re-establishing my normal range of motion will accelerate my recovery. Basically, yabba-dabba-doo, I should do what my physical therapist tells me and stay home for at least a week.

Nurses help me get into the clothes Carlisle brought me in the morning (he had a long surgery scheduled for this afternoon) and Al Stephens rolls me in a wheelchair to the first floor. He stops in the foyer. A few people stand in front of the building, looking idle as they chat and hold cameras. I wince.

"They've been here the entire week," Mr. Stephens says, doing a one eighty. "My car is at the back."

I'm holding on to the arm Mr. Stephens holds out to me as we pace to the car, but luckily, he's patient. The sky is overcast, and if my life were symbolic, I'd say the weather reflects my dreary mood and all that. It doesn't. I'm happy. Well, as happy as you'd expect under the circumstances. I'm going home.

"Mr. Stephens? Thank you for coming to get me. I could've taken a cab, too, but I'm glad you were available."

"I could use some fresh air," he replies, smiling. "It's no problem. Do you need to go to the drug store?"

"Yes, I need some Tylenol and prescription drugs. And a walker."

He nods. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes.

"Are you under a lot of pain?"

"Not a whole lot. Manageable."

"Which means you are, you just don't want to admit it."

"When did _you_ get to know me?"

He smiles. It's warm.

"Did you get results for the fingerprints yesterday?"

"We did." He sighs and looks at me behind a red light. "Nothing. Yours, Emmett's, Edward's. Charlie's. Nothing suspicious. Whoever it was must've used gloves."

"Damn."

"But I could use your help."

"Of course. What do you need?"

"I'm not officially on this case. But I want to run background checks, and if you could tell me who Michael Newton usually hangs out with at school, or who you've seen him with other than Mr. Holstein and Bronn, could you write down their names? As many as you know."

"Do you have a pen?"

He hands me his iPad, and I don't know more than seven or eight, sometimes only first or last names.

"I don't know if or how this could help. He could be doing this all on his own."

"Maybe," he replies. "But maybe not."

We pull up in front of Shoppers Drug Mart, and snail-style, I step into it, holding on to (occasionally leaning on) Mr. Stephens' forearm. I buy drugs and the tallest walker (they are apparently accustomed to shorter elderly people and not giants like me.) It's covered by insurance. When it's bought, Mr. Stephens takes my bags as we adjust the walker at least three times so that I could lean on it as I walk. Just to try it out. Hands on each handles, I take a step. And another. Slowly, I start to walk with teeny-tiny steps as Mr. Stephens patiently stands by me. Bear in mind that I am using the term 'walk' loosely because my lack of speed and rate of dragging my feet disqualify me from walking. It's still uncomfortable and painful, more so than last evening, but I offer Mr. Stephens a smile.

"I'm gonna make walkers so hip in a month even the school jocks are going to have one."

For a second or so, he stares at me, but then he lets out a laugh so carefree I halt. I'm taken off guard by how similar his laugh is to Edward's. I've never heard him laugh before. I take in his lithe and tall frame, a few inches taller than I am, and if I weren't already panting from exertion, I'd start to hyperventilate.

It can't be.

"Mr. Stephens, what's your middle name?"

The corners of his eyes are still creased from smiling. We continue walking.

"Ronald Masen, why?"

It can't be. It can't. It just can't. Can it? Seattle is not too far from Vancouver.

"You wouldn't happen to have any illegitimate children, would you?"

He frowns, and it's a funny kind of frown, like he didn't know whether to take my question seriously or not. "Why?"

"I noticed you have an uncanny similarity to a guy I know who's adopted and looking for his father."

"I'm sorry," he says, still smiling. "I'm afraid that's not possible. I only have a daughter with the only woman I've ever loved."

"I didn't mean to—imply anything. I'm sorry. I just thought honesty was the best policy, and I noticed a similarity."

"No harm, no foul."

As we start driving to Kirkland, I observe him a bit, and notice the differences. Al Stephens is fair-haired and blue-eyed and slightly freckled. He looks like he'd burn in the sun. Dark-haired and green-eyed, Edward has a few tan lines. He must tan easily. I'm aware of this. But I still feel like they _are_ similar. I can't help it. Cruel fate? Biggest coincidence ever? I'm starting to lose my mind.

"Have you ever been to Vancouver?"

"Not once. Which is strange considering I've visited countries in all continents. Except Antarctica, of course." He looks at me. "I'm sorry my answers are disappointing you. I apologize."

"Nothing to apologize for," I reply. "I'm just—I'm so exhausted I'm seeing things. Wishful thinking, I guess."

"Wishful thinking?"

"Yeah. It would be so cool to find out he's got a genuinely good human being as a father as opposed to, I don't know, a drug-addict pedophile dwarf."

He laughs.

"Was it just my appearance that convinced you?"

"And your laughter and the fact that your middle name is Masen. That's his real last name."

"Interesting," he says. "That _is_ an uncanny coincidence. What's his name again? I could look into this."

"He's—I'm not sure it's my place to tell. If you mean it, and he'd agree, could I let him call you?"

"Sure."

"Are you sure you have time for trivial matters like this? Why are you so nice to me?"

He frowns, again, not quite sure whether to take my question seriously or not. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because you're this big important Supervisory Deputy U.S. Marshal and yet you came to see me at the hospital and listen to my weepy story about middle school, and now you're doing what the police should be doing—or is, simultaneously. And then you're also driving me home. Either you're a really, really nice guy or you really, really want dad to be assured that I'm taken care of so he'd stay in Georgia."

The edge of his mouth rises. "Which one do you think it is?"

"Well, while I don't think you'd mind if my dad knew how much you're helping me, you'd survive without it, so maybe you're just a super nice guy."

"I'm not going to lie to you, Isabella. I do think your dad should finish his training. He's got it in him. It's what he wants to do. And, like you said, if he were here for you, that would make no difference because you're the one who will have to learn to walk and run again. He couldn't be here for you 24/7. That's all true. But I also thought it would be a good idea to have the chance to talk to you, and you needed help."

"Now you're just trying to cover up the fact that you're a really amiable dude, Mr. Stephens."

"If you insist on calling me a dude, perhaps you should call me Al."

"How old are you, Al?"

"Sixty one."

"Continue what you're doing 'cause you don't look a day over fifty nine."

He laughs. I watch the grey Lake Washington as we cross the floating bridge, and it starts to rain. Windshield wipers push the raindrops to the side, and they make their little pathways until they unite and melt.

"Can I really call you Al?"

He nods.

"That's brilliant. I have more questions, if that's okay. You can just not answer me if you don't want to. I'm pretty blunt though, so I apologize in advance for that."

"Not a problem at all. What do you want to know?"

"How long have you known dad?"

"Just shy of two years, if I'm not mistaken."

"Is Sarah your daughter?"

"I see Charlie isn't as inconspicuous as he thinks." He smiles. It's a bit surprised but a lot amused. "Yes. She is my only daughter."

"Seeing as my dad has never mentioned this, are they dating?"

He's trying to suppress a smile. "I've long ago backed out of trying to label them. In a way, yes. Would they say they're dating? I doubt. Who knows nowadays."

"Did she meet dad through you or did you meet dad through your daughter?"

"I met him through Sarah," he replies. "I can honestly say I did not like your father at all at first. A man with two teenaged children who is twelve years older than my daughter? He appeared rather—crude at first, for a lack of a better word. Not impolite, just a sort of raw honesty that I've grown to appreciate over time. He knew of my antipathy, of course, but we never talked about it."

"What made you change your mind?"

"A—tight situation. Work-related. He saved my life, red tape style, and never mentioned it again. A disarming attitude. I'd always thought he was using my daughter, but I found myself talking to him, and he cares. He's just not used to showing it. I'm not eager to marry my daughter off—it's her decision—but no father likes to see his daughter in a questionable relationship with a man who doesn't seem to want to or might not be able to return what she's offering him. I've since decided it's none of my concern."

"Good decision. I approve."

"You are a spitting image of him, you do know that?"

"That sounds like comparing an elephant and a chicken and coming to the conclusion that they are both pink and furry."

He laughs. "Nevertheless, you are very similar to your father."

"That's a compliment."

"It is."

"Thank you. How much time do you have on your hands?"

"Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

"Home," I reply. "Or the remnants of it. If you have time."

"I think we can squeeze that in," he says, and turns on the radio.

We haven't even made it to our subdivision when we see slight smoke rising from the distance. As we drive closer to home, I'm struck by nausea. In a surreal sort of way, I feel the car come to a stop as I stare at the dust and smoke rising up to the sky and fighting the rain that insist on the opposite direction. Quarter of a wall, coal black, is up on the right, but mostly it's all rubble covered in wet ash. It is, as Emmett said, like a war had taken place, but nothing could've prepared me for the shock of seeing it. I mean, it was just a few walls and a ceiling. A house that looked almost identical to the one on the right. Nothing special.

I gulp. "Will you help me—go there?"

"Are you sure you have the energy?"

"Yes," I reply. "I want to."

Al helps me out of the car and holds out his arm. I grip it. He waits as I walk, tiny step after tiny step, toward the rubble. It's like I'm being introduced to a surreal scene of a movie where they made a replica of my subdivision and my burnt house and wanted my opinion on whether or not it seemed believable and authentic to the original. It did, scarily so. Sadly. When we'd made it to the remnants of porch and doorway, I could see that a pathway had been made to move in the middle of rubble. I inch closer to it. As I can't step over a log, Al puts his hands under my armpits and lifts me over it. He resumes to my side as I, through increasing pain, step around the rubble, holding on to his forearm.

The remnants of furniture and the start of our staircase are covered in grey goo. I inch around pieces of furniture some of which I can recognize but most of which I can't, and imagine the doorway for our living room in which Edward asked to kiss me not so long ago. I catch sight of my table, without legs, upside down under the beginning of our staircase.

"Could you try to get the drawer out? Please?"

I can't crouch. Al does, and wipes my table before pushing it sideways and opening the drawer. Rubble and ash fall on the ground, followed by a metal box.

"Please."

He hands it to me and I take off the lid. Gripping my stack of photos and pieces of poetry and articles with their burnt edges, I put down the metal box. I put a few poems under the stack before I reach a photograph of Emmett, mom and I, taken about ten years ago. I brush the grey goo (ash) off the third step of our staircase.

"Do you think—it will hold me?" I ask, but sit without waiting for an answer. Breathing hurts. My back aches. So does my heart. I look at the rubble covered by wet ash and feel rain wet my face. I scrunch my face to avoid crying, but I can't. I take off my gloves and clutch the photograph, brushing my finger against the fragile corner. The ash makes my palms dirty. I press my teeth together as I don't want to start sobbing.

Al crouches in front of me. "Do you need a moment?"

I nod and watch as he starts walking in the middle of rubble, moving some pieces of furniture or wiping them. I rub my thumbs against mom's face on the picture, the petite figure, blonde hair and a smile with two dimples. I'm sitting on her leg and Emmett is standing next to me, holding our neighbors' hamster on his palm. Both of us are observing the little creature. I take a glove and start rubbing mom's face, cleaning it as if it made mom return or visit us, as if it gave me more pictures of her than this one, as if the house didn't matter. It does. I want mom to be here. Most of my memories of her took place in this house and I'm terrified that now that it's gone, she'll be, too.

I breathe in, crudely wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve, and continue flipping through the papers. There are a few other pictures, of me and Emmett and dad, but none of mom. I stop as I reach a picture of me and Eric that Angela took on our ninth grade trip to North Cascades National Park, and we're sitting next to the fire, playing cards together. It must've been the only class trip we took together. I had this picture on my wall to remind me of the first time I truly wanted to change myself and told Eric about it, and in his awkward, taciturn manner, he told me to go for it. And as neither of us knew our new classmates, we decided to play cards together. Just the two of us.

In a creepy sort of way—with its edges intact—it's the only picture unharmed by fire.

I wipe my nose, put on my gloves and attempt to get up. I can't.

"Al? Could you help me?"

He pretends not to notice my runny nose as he pulls me to my feet, offers his arm, turns to look at the street, and after a few seconds, he mutters, "We've got company."

I turn my head to look at a man in his early thirties, perhaps, snapping away pictures in our direction. I look at my feet as we continue to walk. "Journalist?"

"Probably."

When we've made it to the car, Al calls out, "Young man in a black coat, what do you have there?"

Not the slightest bit intimidated, the man steps closer. "Dereck Norman, reporting for _The Seattle Times_," he says, and then turns to me. "Are you Isabella Swan? I would like to ask some questions, if that's okay."

"She's arrived straight from the hospital. She needs to rest."

Dereck Norman, with his light brown hair and a striped scarf, steps closer. "I see that you're on your feet. I heard you were going to be paralyzed."

I clench my fingers around Al's forearm and grimace. My back aches. My eyes are red. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Norman, but I have a dog waiting for my return and he's going to pee on the carpet if he waits any longer."

He tilts his head on the side, as if he isn't sure if he heard me correctly. "Perhaps we could work out a time for an interview, Miss Swan? Maybe later this week?"

"I'm afraid my dog is going to pee on my carpet every day." Al opens the car door for me and I lean on it. I hesitate. I can drive this journalist away with my rudeness, but if this is what Eric wanted me to do—tell them our story, should I take this chance? I sigh. "No offense, Mr. Norman, but I really do need rest. I haven't decided if or when I'm going to sit down with a journalist , but if I do, I promise to remember your offer. Deal?"

I offer my right hand, and he gives me a firm handshake. "Deal. Here, take my business card."

I take it. No journalists are waiting for us in front of Edward's house and I'm thankful. Al thinks it's because they simply don't know I'm staying at Edward's, but either way, it's lovely. In a surreal sort of way. I lean on Al's arm as we inch closer to the door. He unlocks it. Ping Pong jumps on me, waggling his little tail like I'm the tastiest thing since the bone. I sit, scratching Ping Pong's neck as I wait for Al. He brings my badass walker, dirty metal box and medications from the car. Ping Pong growls at him, but I tell him to stop, and miraculously, he does.

"Esme should be home within an hour," Al says, setting down my stuff. "I can stay until she arrives."

"Don't. You have more important business to tend to than babysitting a seventeen year-old. Go save lives or something."

He smiles. "Where's your room?"

Supporting my weight, he half-lifts me downstairs. Ping Pong follows, sniffing him. Again, I hold on to Al's arm as we walk to my room. My (text)books and papers have been organized into stacks on my desk, and Esme probably put my clothes away, but it's obvious someone has gone through my stuff. A larger, new mattress is covering my bed, and there are necessities on my bedside table: bottles of water, tissues, a few books, peanuts, Tylenol. I sit on the new mattress.

"Can you see my laptop?"

He observes my table, walks into the parlor and into Edward's room. "Macintosh?" he asks.

"That's Edward's. I have a Dell."

He comes back.

"I think whoever broke in must've taken it," I say. Charlie isn't used to me owning a laptop, of course he wouldn't have noticed.

Al walks around my bed, observes my table and goes through my drawers one by one. All are empty. He sits. "Could there have been anything at all on it that could be considered evidence against Newton?"

"I told you, Eric never—well, shit."

"What is it?"

"If—if Eric sent me an email or an attachment in an email—they'll have it now. I haven't been to my inbox since last Sunday."

"Does your computer automatically go to your inbox?"

"It does."

"Is your computer password-protected?"

"Yes."

"Don't tell me your password is Edward's name."

"I _am_ Charlie's daughter, you know."

"Could it be easily hacked by someone who knows what you like?"

"Well, my computer's password is hulaFrog03-1975. If you think that's easy to guess, then yes."

Al lets out a laugh, but he's relieved. "Let me go get my iPad." He leaves and returns with Ping Pong sniffing his feet, and hands me his technology. "Go see your email."

I do. I log in, and while my inbox is overflowing with Facebook messages, ridiculous stuff that Emmett has shared and a couple of emails from work, Ctrl F proves that not a single email is from Eric.

"Can I?" Al asks, and as I hold his iPad, he scrolls down. "Last account activity: 28th of February," he reads. "Good. No-one's probably hacked into your computer. Not yet. Change your passwords. This one, Skype, Facebook, all of them."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

I do as he says. When I'm done, I give back his iPod. "I'll wait until Esme is home."

"Don't. It's fine. Ping Pong is so scary he'll scare Frankenstein away. Right, Ping Pong?" Wally, faithful as ever, waggles his little tail and licks my knees. "Ferocious dog," I add.

"Where was he when someone broke in?"

"He's upstairs during the day."

He nods and stands. "Thank you for calling me before Eric had done anything. If it weren't for your call, the police and ambulance would've never made it in time. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you," I reply, smiling. "For helping me, for everything."

"My pleasure," he says. "How do I leave and lock after myself without taking your key?"

"Push the thingy in an upright position. It'll stay locked."

The house echoes when the door locks and I lie on my back. I didn't realize how much it ached. My feet continue to tingle. The house is silent except for the sound of Ping Pong's breathing as he looks at me, tongue out of his mouth. He rests his head on the side of the mattress and whimpers. It's a heartbreaking sound.

"Did you miss me?"

Wally looks at me with his big, sad eyes and licks my face. It's wonderful. I scratch his ears. He wants to hop in my lap, but I don't let him. I would love to snuggle and hug him, but until my back is stronger, I don't want to risk anything. I send dad a text message to let him know I'm home, drink a bottle of water and take three pills.

I wake up to the sound of Esme whispering my name and caressing my hair. She's sitting on the edge of my bed, with a smoothie-looking drink in her one hand and three pills in the other. When she sees I'm awake, she offers a gentle smile.

"It's time to take your antibiotics," she says. I attempt to get up, but she puts down my drink to be able to help me. I let her. I lean on the pillow-covered headboard and drink her smoothie.

"It's so good I'll eat the glass after I'm done," I tell her. "Thank you."

She smiles as I gulp down her drink. "It's just berries, yoghurt and some bran for your stomach. I made a lot. Do you want more?"

"Yes. Yes, but—" I pant. "I think my stomach has shrunk with this week. Can you leave some for later?"

"Of course, honey." She takes my empty glass and gives me my pills. "Don't you like lasagna? I left you some for heating, but noticed you didn't touch it."

"You made lunch?" I swallow pills and drink water. "I—I didn't know. I forgot. I'm sorry."

"I'll leave some for later. You should take it easy when you haven't eaten properly for so long." She smiles, and it's a heart-warming sight. "We bought you a toilet riser and this mattress—it's really good for your back. We're going to get you an elastic corset, and already ordered one of those blue exercising mattresses for your physical therapy. We'll bring the microwave downstairs as well. And a tiny fridge. Is there anything else you think you need?"

"I—I, I mean, wow. Thank you."

"It's the least we could do," she says, intertwines her fingers together and stares at her lap. She starts to scratch and observe the edges of her fingernails as if she'd never realized how incessantly fascinating they were. "Bella," she starts and licks her lips, rubbing her bony fingers. She's so fragile. She's very different from me, how prim and proper she looks, how much she takes care of her appearance, how tactful she is and how much she expresses love with concern. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did. For Edward. When Carlisle and I saw the footage—I can't describe how much it meant to me, to us. You don't know what an angel you are. If you hadn't—maybe Eric would've—but you saved him, and I—" She swallows. "We'll never be able to repay you for what you did."

"Sure you will. Just make me smoothies as long as I live."

She wipes away her tears. "Oh, God. I promised I wouldn't cry, but I—please tell us when you need anything. Anything at all."

"Like a lifetime supply of peanut-butter? Sure thing."

She laughs.

"It's nothing. You don't owe me anything. I've said it before, but it was my decision. No matter how things end up with me and Edward, I don't want you to feel like you owe me. Because you don't."

"What do you mean how things end up with Edward? Do you plan on…"

"I don't plan," I reply. "That's the thing. But we're in high school. We're young, and I don't think either of us truly knows what we want out of life. We're not really anything yet, and life's messy and unexpected, and it's just too early to say anything. Right now, I'm just grateful someone like Edward is a part of my journey, and I hope he feels the same."

She leans in to hug me, like a proper, both arms around my back kind of hug. I return it. "I understand. Take things slow, have fun. But don't write him off just because you're young. Sometimes happy endings are worth fighting for."

"Truer words have never been spoken."

She laughs and holds me tight against her. "I know I didn't see it coming, but I couldn't be happier that you found each other. Take care of him, alright?"

"I will," I reply. She pulls back, caresses my hair and smiles at me through tears. I slide lower because I can't sit for longer than twenty or thirty minutes, but Esme stays by my side and keeps caressing my hair. I close my eyes and sigh. "I'd like to think my mom would've taken care of me just as well as you are."

"Honey," Esme says, and kisses my forehead. "Of course she would have."

I nod. She wouldn't have, of course. Not because she didn't care, but because she showed her love differently. She wouldn't have fussed so much. She would've read fairy tales and fallen asleep and watched a movie with me. Tucking me in and kissing me just weren't a part of her she shared with me. But maybe I wanted that, just a little bit. I wanted a taste of what Edward had. Not only someone to care, but someone to be unafraid to show how much they do.

"Will you play cards with me?"

Her hands stop, but she doesn't remove them.

"It's okay if you don't want to, or don't have the time. I just thought—we've never really spent much time together. It's fine, though. Don't feel bad for saying no."

But she stands, slides her hands over her knee-length skirt, and says, "I'll be right back."

When she returns, she's wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, with her hair in a bun and no make-up. None. I've never seen her so casual.

"You look like a poker player's dream," I say as she sits on my mattress, cross-legged. I notice her gaze on my hair. "I thought you could die my hair again if you wanted. I'm turning grey."

"What color?"

"I was thinking green. Bright green. And then some purple streaks."

She stares at me for a second. "Alright."

"You'd do that?"

"Sure."

"I was kidding, though. Maybe just dark blonde underneath and light at the tips. Would that work?"

Esme laughs, and I see the girl in her, perhaps a teenager ready to let her hair down and talk about silly girly things and paint nails and draw a fake tattoo on my back. I shuffle my deck of cards, explain the rules of bullshit to her and we play. She laughs a lot, I laugh a lot, and after a few rounds, we don't even pay attention to the game. She's lying beside me, cards on her stomach.

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

"What was Edward like when he was a kid?"

"A bit lost. Desperate to please Carlisle and always ahead of the others kids. He grew up fast, something I always associated with the fact that Carlisle took him to the hospital all the time and he saw the rough side of life from early on. I'm sorry that I couldn't see you two—together, but my surprise had nothing to do with how much you deserve him and a lot—you were with Laurent and I had no reason to believe—I'm so sorry if my reaction wounded you or—"

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"No, I want to. You see, I always wanted a daughter." Her lips tug into a sad smile as looks at me. "I wanted Edward to have a sister. So much."

"You're stuck with me now, though. I am totally worth the fuss of five daughters."

She looks at me, really looks at me, staring at my face and hair, the fragility of my position, and her eyes brim over. She lets out a teary-eyed huff of a laugh, turns to her side so that cards fall on the blanket and rests her jaw on her palm. She opens and closes her mouth, but finally squeezes my hand and smiles, not saying anything. I return her smile.

"Carlisle has always been—if not Edward's best friend, then his trustee. I've always known that. They have a close relationship. Truly close. I'm proud of how much Edward shares with him because he's his dad and of course there are things you feel awkward bringing up with your mother. But I admit, I was hurt when it became clear that Edward told Carlisle months ago, and yet they let me make a fool out of myself thinking he treated you like a sister. If I'd known, I would've never said that. I would've helped you—"

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

"You think too much."

She lets out a broken laugh. She worries a lot and she's tactful, but truly, she's so genuinely warm-hearted it's making my heart burst. "If you want to get back at them, I'm ready to share girl-matters so embarrassing my dog will blush. I will make you buy tampons and tell you all about how unworthy of Edward I think I am."

"You're not. Truly. He'll be desperate to make you see that."

"That's what I'm worried about."

She observes my face, but instead of answering, she sighs. "There's not much I could tell you that you'll believe without the words coming from his mouth, is there?"

"True."

When Carlisle discovers us a few hours later, he's leaning on the doorway, hands crossed, with a scowl on his face. Esme has just called me out on my bullshitting when Carlisle clears his throat.

"Isabella Swan, you've ruined my wife."

I don't move. Esme looks up, and I'm afraid Carlisle is mad at me for keeping Esme from making dinner (whichever spouse is home always seems to make dinner for the other), but he gets a glint in his eye and chuckles, walks over to Esme to kiss her, and stands, hands akimbo.

"So do I get to join?"

"I don't know. It really depends on how much ass-kicking your manhood can take."

He brings three plates of warmed-up lasagna before sitting by my feet, holding a stack of cards and eating. It's a rather peculiar experience yet totally fun, and I wonder what Edward will make of this scene now that neither his dad nor mom made dinner. Neither insisted on eating around the dinner table. I have, in fact, ruined them.

I don't get to find out. Once again, I fall asleep. I faintly recall Edward lying next to my bed with a lamp and a textbook, chewing on the end of his ball-point pen as he rolls a ball for Ping Pong to chase, and I think of opening my mouth: asking for time, bullshitting, getting a hug. I'm tired, so I simply look at him before falling asleep again.

The next time I awake, it's light outside. My bladder is at the brink of exploding, and I hate my back all the way to the bathroom. There's a molded piece of plastic, about eight inches high, above the toilet. Toilet riser? Weird. But I've never been more grateful for something so embarrassing. When I inch back to my room with my badass walker, I notice the furniture in the parlor has been moved to make room for a blue exercising mat. It takes up nearly half of the room.

"Very impressive," Carlisle says as he walks downstairs. He stops to observe me. "Any pain?"

"Strangely enough, no. I just feel very drowsy. I could sleep all day."

"Did you sleep through the night?"

"Like a monkey on drugs."

He gives a call to my doctor and together they decide that if my drowsiness doesn't retreat by Thursday evening, the amount (or sort) of my drugs needs changing. When I'm lying on my bed again, Carlisle brings me breakfast and a newspaper. He opens the fifth page and places it in my lap.

"I think you should see this."

In bold letters, the headline reads, _Misfortune in Swan Family_. Half of the page is covered by a black and white photograph of (the remnants of) my house as I sit on a staircase that leads nowhere, clutching a piece of paper. My head is lowered as I cry, and the overcast sky is looming above me. It's a heartbreaking fragment.

"Kudos to Mr. Norman for an artistic photograph."

Carlisle watches me closely. "I don't mean to scold you, Bella, but what were you doing there alone?"

I observe the photograph, and sure enough, Al is nowhere to be seen. "Al Stephens was with me. He must be crouching in the rubble or behind the single wall that's still up. I wasn't alone."

He lets out a breath. "You had me worried."

"Should I read the article?" I ask. "Is it something bad?"

He shakes his head. "It talks about you going home, the fact you're on your feet, your home and the suspected arson. It's concise."

It is. Mr. Norman hasn't made anything up, and I like that. If I do, indeed, decide to call the media attention upon myself, I think he wouldn't be a bad choice. Maybe I should be upset, but honestly, I don't really care right now.

I would be way more upset if the piece wrote about the incredible Michael Newton and his journey to Yale.

Carlisle spends the morning with me. Together with Esme, they'll try to arrange their shifts so that I wouldn't have to be home alone. It's incredibly considerate. I try to convince him otherwise because I don't need babysitting, but he insists that if I should fall or something should happen, I'll need someone to help me. I can't argue with that. Well, I can, but I don't. Still, he insists today is an exception because he leaves before noon, and Esme will arrive home after six.

A whole myriad of people visit me on Wednesday.

Two policemen who are actually working on this case, Thomas Kell and Richard Parker, come to talk to me. Dad used to be their boss and I've seen them around. They know of Michael Newton's assault against me, and my opinion about Eric's motives, but they only ask specific questions. A dog walker, a woman named Gianna Evans, arrives just after the policemen have left to take Ping Pong on a walk. A few hours later, when she has brought Ping Pong back, happy and panting, my physical therapist arrives. She introduces herself as Christine Bartlett, "Chris." She could be twenty or forty, I can't tell. One of those lucky ageless women.

She walks downstairs, pulls my walker about three feet away from me, and arches an eyebrow. I waver, because I need that walker, but instead of breaking the silence, I take a step. And another. I fall, too, but catch the side of our couch before a concussion could occur. She doesn't say anything. Seriously. Her name is one of the two times she says anything during the hour and a half that we spend together. I bullshit and say all sorts of crazy stuff to make her talk, but no. She makes it clear I am to repeat what she does even if it's painful—and it is. Overall an arrogant-looking woman. The second time she opens her mouth, she tells me that if I don't lose my walker by Friday, I'm weak. Well, ouch. I have that walker for a reason, you know.

When she has left, I lie on my exercising mat and stare at the ceiling. I'm pissed. I'm pissed that my physical therapist looks at me as if my problems are trivial and that all I want is pity. That all that lies between me and recovery is my fear of pain. Most of all, I'm pissed if she's right. I'll be equally pissed if she isn't. Minutes pass as I, with Ping Pong's help, sit, get hold of the couch, and stand. Tingle, tingle. If Chris is right, and it's all in my head, I'll have no problem climbing upstairs, right?

I inch closer to them. It's brutal. The pace, my back. Out of spite, I kick over my walker and curse. Once I'm at the beginning of stairs, I lean on the wall and count steps. Ten plus five. There's no handrail, so I awkwardly lean on the wall as I lift my right leg. Take a step, lift my body, raise both legs on the step. Repeat. On my fourth step, I decide to go left leg first, but my idiot leg doesn't realize it's supposed to land properly. I slip, fly through the air like a broken superman and land upside-down on the steps. Blistering pain shoots from my back to legs.

My tears are immediate. Ping Pong snuggles his head on my chest and whines, and I just lie there, tears streaming on my temples because I'm upside-down and everything hurts and I'm so fucking angry that it does. I growl. I weep.

"Is this a message, God? Am I supposed to never take anything for granted ever again? 'cause if you exist and you're trying to make a point, you're being kind of an asshole right now."

I lift my head, just a fraction, but it hurts too fucking much.

"Fucking useless motherfucking back! _Fuck_."

Ping Pong lies next to me and looks at me with his big, sad eyes. I close mine, hyperventilating, and no longer attempt to get up. I just lie there. It's too much. Too much everything. Too much pain, too much pressure, too much expectation and too much hurt. Too much.

I don't know how long I've laid there, upside-down, when I hear the door close. I open my eyes to see Edward's jean-clad legs, white sweatshirt covered torso, and finally, his pale, worried face.

"What happened?!"

"I'm meditating," I reply, motioning at myself. "Duh." I crack a broken smile.

He leans over me, assessing damage. "How long have you been like this? Where does it hurt? Can you move?"

"Not if I can help it. Just leave me here. I'm fine."

"The fuck you are. C'mon, I'll help you up. Can you bend your neck?"

"I don't need your help."

A flash of hurt crosses his eyes, but he cradles my neck. "You do."

"Fine. But I don't want it."

"And I'm supposed to leave you here."

"Yes. I'm throwing one heck of a pity party. You're not invited."

He hesitates before he throws his back bag next to the wall, crouches behind me and takes hold of my underarms.

"Don't!"

"Does this hurt?"

"Please," I beg, voice wavering. "Leave me be. Don't be so nice to me. Shout. Yell. Scream at me. Please."

With one swift move, Edward lifts me, places me on the ground, and sits behind me so that my legs are stretched out between his. He presses my back against his chest and wraps his arms around my waist in a way so tender and safe that immediately I'm sobbing. Edward rocks me back and forth as I weep, ugly face grimaces and snot noise and all. Tears drop on his forearms. He presses his jaw to the crook of my neck.

"Shh."

"Don't shush me!"

I can barely feel his kiss on the nape of my neck. He whispers, "Why do you want me to yell at you?"

"Because—'cause then it'll be okay for me to do it."

"You can yell at me if you want."

"You don't—I don't—don't be nice to me!"

He slides his palm back and forth on my waist and I wipe my nose against the back of my sleeve. I feel Edward's heartbeat against my back and take shaky breaths. He breathes on my neck and my hair bristles. Goosebumps.

"What happened?" Edward mutters against my ear.

"I want to be perfect."

"Nobody is."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not assuring me I am."

"I figured you'd castrate me if I said that."

I let out a shaky, teary laugh. "You figured correctly."

I feel his chuckle, but he stops soon and breathes on my ear. "You can't expect to be climbing stairs the second day you're back from the hospital. You're not a superwoman, Bella."

"Yes, I am."

"You are not."

"I am."

"Are not."

"I want to be. This is so unfair. I don't want to be this crippled fucking nuisance in your life who needs babysitting and can't even walk five feet without a fucking walker. I don't want to be weak. And I don't want to cry. Or for you to see me cry. It's embarrassing."

Edward's hold on me tightens, but he's so careful it's almost as if he's expecting me to break. "You're the bravest, strongest girl I've ever known," he whispers, letting his lips touch my ear. "But you're only human. You took a bullet, you're learning to walk again, that fucker burnt your home down and is now free because we have no evidence against him. It's more than enough to give a marble statue a nervous breakdown. Of course you're overwhelmed."

"You're talking like you were expecting for me to perform some unappealing snot-covered weeping in front of you."

"No. Not expecting," he replies. "But I'm not surprised, either. Sometimes we process life in different speeds. Eventually, you will have to process some things to make moving on possible. Or easier. Being slower or faster makes you no better or worse person than the one next door."

"Deep."

"I'm not expecting you to be Bella the Strong all the time. You were so brave and took everything in stride last week. Let yourself be human. It's only natural."

"I still hate it."

"It's okay to feel however you feel," he mutters. "You're not a robot."

"I want to be," I admit, voice faint and not sounding like me. "I don't want to feel anything. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I didn't miss my mom so much. I wish I didn't remember her so that I wouldn't know what I'm missing. I wish Eric and I had never felt how it feels to be an outcast." I take a breath. My voice trembles. "I just wish—I don't want this. I don't want to be weak. I hate it. I wish I didn't understand Eric as well as I do so that I could hate him like the rest of the world. I wish—I just wish… I wish I'd never known what it feels like to be put down, day by day, so that I wouldn't try to reason why or how long you're with me. I wish I could offer you the kind of affection you deserve without having to—having to think about it."

My throat gets hot and tight, and I stop speaking. Edward rocks me, back and forth, as I weep silently in his arms. He presses his jaw against my neck and breathes on it.

"I wish I knew how you came to survive an experience like this and still love the world and the people in it as much as you do. I wish I knew how to make you see—you've got so much affection in you when you allow yourself show it. I wish I knew how to make you believe me when I tell you." He snuggles closer, places a kiss just in front of my ear and whispers, "I love you."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you love me?"

"Because you are… something else."

I snicker. "I can't believe you remember that."

The front door closes, and there's rustling in the kitchen as Edward and I listen to each other's breathing. Steps come downstairs, and as Esme appears, worry etched on her face, I hide my tear-stained face in my hands. Edward squeezes my waist ever so slightly. "Mom, can you give us a moment?"

"Is Bella alright?"

"She's fine," Edward replies. "Can you give us a moment?"

"Of course." I hear her leave.

Edward draws me close, his embrace strong and safe, nuzzles my neck and hums. "You're extraordinary."

"You're delusional." I feel his lips against my neck and clear my throat. "Will you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"How to love."

He stands, sits in front of me, cross-legged, and pulls my legs to rest on either side of him. Wrapping his arms around me just enough for me to be comfortable and rest my back on his hands, he looks at me like I'm the brightest thing since the sun. It's unnerving and exhilarating. He brushes his lips against mine. "I don't need to teach you anything. You already know."

"No, I don't. Not like you do," I reply, resting my forehead against his cheek. "I want to—learn how to make you feel a fraction of what I feel for you. I don't know how to keep your interest. Or how to not feel daunted by your experience with girls. I don't know anything."

He huffs, but it's almost like a growl. "If anyone should be afraid of not keeping the other one's interest, it should be me," he says, and pulls me into a careful hug. He blows air out of his nose, and it's sharp, as if he intended to snort but it didn't come out right. "And a fraction of what you feel for me? You think you're going a hundred miles per hour when, really, you're going in reverse." He breathes on my neck and whispers, "Does it hurt for you to lie on the carpet?"

I'm not sure but I shake my head, and together we find a way for me to lie on it so that it wouldn't hurt. It doesn't, really. But just to make sure, as Edward kneels above me, legs on either side of my hips, he places his palm behind my back, supporting it. "Don't let me hurt you."

Hair falls on his forehead as he lowers his torso. His eyes flicker between my eyes and mouth, and it's giving me goose bumps.

"What're you doing?" I whisper.

"Switching your gears."

He holds on to me, palm flat against my back, and leans close enough for our noses to touch. His eyes fix on my lips before he presses his open mouth against mine, sucking and running his tongue over my teeth. I laugh and nibble his lower lip. I hear a guttural groan from his chest as he cradles my neck and dives for my mouth, frantic. He runs his hands through my hair, breathing on my mouth. "I've imagined undressing you. Kissing each of your birthmarks." He breathes a kiss on my ear. "Nuzzling your neck, holding on and letting go when we take the next step. Have you?"

I shiver and shake my head, just slightly, because it's the truth. Unsurprised, he nods and leans on his elbow as he hovers above my face, his face red and lips swollen. He's accepting my answer yet looking at me with so much longing and awe and affection it's almost like I'm in someone else's body. Someone amazing and beautiful.

When Edward starts nuzzling my ear, his hand clenches on my side, stroking it. He taps the center of my chest with his index and middle finger, makes a path to my neck, like a tiny man made of his fingers. He rubs his nose back and forth against my collar bone. I let out a giggle.

"I hope you're available on Amazon because once you're gone, I'm ordering a new you."

I lift my hands to hold on to his shoulder and neck, but he pulls back. There's hurt in his voice. "I'm not going anywhere."

I rub a thumb against his jaw. "I'm not asking for a life-time commitment. Let's just take it one day at a time, alright?"

Edward nods. He's still red-faced and panting from kissing, and as he lowers himself to press a kiss my neck, I'm panting, too. His touch tingles. He whispers, "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Your foreplay is top notch?"

He snorts a laugh. The tips of his ears redden. "Thank you. I'm thrilled you think so but that wasn't my point."

"You're saying you're holding back."

"I am. You're not ready for me. Even if you weren't hurt. I'm too far gone for you. I would be ready for the next step, and you're not. Not physically, not mentally. And that's okay."

"What if it takes a while for me to be ready?"

"It will. And we'll go with your pace. Always tell me when you feel pressured. Everything we do needs to be your decision. Everything."

"So, you, uh. Ready, huh? What if I—can I—we can do, uh, other stuff. If you, you know, want to go faster."

"Fuck no," Edward whispers, horror-stricken. "No. I just told you. Your pace, not mine."

"But what if—what if I take so long you grow bored? I don't—I don't want to lose you before we even had a chance."

I feel a lump in my throat. Edward curses under his breath and sits behind me again, pulling my torso against his. "Shh." He wraps his arms around me. "I shouldn't have been this honest with you."

"I'm glad you were."

A warm kiss is pressed on the nape of my neck. "We just got together two days ago. It's too early for this conversation. All I can say is that I find it highly unlikely that the most intriguing girl I've ever met would bore me."

"You're a man. And as I understand, you're used to—you know. Having sex. I'm not."

"It's too early for this conversation, Bella," he mutters against my ear. "You're worth waiting for. At this point, I couldn't care less how long it takes. I mean, Jesus. I have a collection of poems written for you, and I've never—Just don't talk about a fraction of a feeling when I'm so in love with you I'm climbing up the walls with my fingernails. Of course I want to show you. But it needs to be when you're ready, and we have all the time in the world."

He squeezes me, and I turn my head, press my lips against his and lean back against him.

"I don't want you to try and please me," he says. "Please yourself first."

"Are we speaking metaphorically or are you referring to masturbating?"

He laughs and rubs his nose against my jaw. "Never change, Bella."

"I love you," I say, and feel Edward's smile against my ear. "I just wish I understood why you're being so kind to me."

"You know all those things we said we wished were true? I wish you didn't think being kind to you needs a reason."

"Kind of like how the secret to happy life is low expectations, you know? Maybe my middle school experience has given me such low expectations about people that I can't not notice and be grateful when someone's nice to me."

"I'm not nice to you because I love you. I'm nice because you deserve kindness in your life."

"How magnanimous."

"You've watched _Shawshank Redemption _one too many times."

"Maybe."

He helps me stand. I hold on to his waist, and Edward stares at my grip before he makes eye contact and straightens himself in front of me, legs slightly apart. He carefully encases my head in his hands and looks at me with a smile that holds so much affection I'm all mush and butterfly-y even without a kiss.

"Teach me," he says, running his hands through my hair. "Teach me how to love the world as much as you do."

"Well, first of all, you'll need to run around the house, butt-naked, holding a poof in one hand and a tomato in the other, singing the theme song for _The Flintstones_. When that's done, you'll peel one potato, cover yourself in mud and sit on an oak tree, throwing Skittles at the by-passers. If you succeed in doing that, I'll consider you qualified for my life-loving lessons."

He throws his head back in laughter before pressing his lips against mine. "Jesus, I've missed you."

"Not only did you just change orientation, you're also two millenniums late."

He snorts and snuggles against my neck. "Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

"Just my ego."

"Are you sure? I can get you an ice pack."

"For my ego? Thanks."

He laughs.

"Get ice-cream instead. Tubs of it."

"Yes, mam." He grins. "I have basketball in a few hours, but if you want me to cancel, I can. The coach will understand."

"No. Don't. Don't start rearranging your life just because I look like a breeze could knock me over."

"That's not funny." Edward squeezes my waist. "I thought you were getting an elastic corset?"

"Carlisle will bring me one in the evening."

If Edward is taken aback by my lack of speed and pathetic-looking steps, he shows no signs of it. With saintly patience, he walks beside me so that I could hold on to his forearm as he helps me to my room. I sit. He brings my dinner downstairs, and we eat together. I don't know if he told Esme we wanted to be left alone, but his mom doesn't join us. I wouldn't mind if she did, but I don't mind leaning on my headboard, talking about trivial nonsense with Edward. When I'm done eating, I let my eyes linger on my unused sports clothes. If clothes could feel, my sports jacket would definitely be weeping right now. My buff looks worn out.

I pale and choke on my rice. Edward crawls closer, helping me cough as I pant.

"You okay?"

"Edward," I reply, eyes wide with horror. "It's my fault. All of it."

"What is? No. What're you talking about?"

"Before Christmas. When Newton came to pick on me, I—I told him I had his assault on tape. But I—I bluffed. I have nothing. But he must've thought I had something so he came to find it and didn't so he burnt our house down. It's my fault." My voice sounds hollow and horrified even in my own ears.

"Bella? Look at me." I do. Edward draws a pattern against my cheek. "Nobody blames you. What's done is done. Call your dad, or Marshal Stephens, or both of them. Tonight. You'll never rid yourself of guilt unless you've heard them tell you it could've happened anyway."

"You don't understand."

"You did whatever you had to do to elicit a reaction from him that would benefit you. Self-preservation is a powerful thing. You did the best under the circumstances you were in."

"But I _lied_. I lied, Edward. And now our home is gone because of it."

"Call your dad. Right now. Tell him. Trust me, he'll understand."

"How do you know?"

"Bella, your dad might not be the most affluent person, but he invested in you. He insured your house so that you'd always have a home and he got you one of the most expensive health insurances so that if anything happened, you'd be covered. So maybe you haven't had as many material goods as the other kids, but your dad knew what he cared about, and that's you. His life insurance is set so that if anything should happen to him, Emmett and you should comfortably be able to live a few years before figuring out what you want to do."

I blink at him. "How do you know all of this?"

"We spoke a lot last week. He told me."

"But—I mean, it sort of makes sense, but he's preparing for his own death? That's creepy."

"You're all he has, and he's all you have. He knows it and has acted accordingly. You can't undermine the importance of that."

"I'm, I mean, wow."

"Call him," he says, and leans in for a kiss. He lingers, breathing on my mouth. "Do you want me to stay now?"

"No," I reply and offer a faint smile. "I've got this."

When Edward is at the doorway (I mean, my arch-y gap), I call out, "Edward?"

He turns. "Do you need anything?"

"Sometimes I forget you're almost four years older than me, but then you know exactly what to say, and I just want to tell you—I think you're amazing."

A brilliant, adorable smile covers his lips. He walks over to me and cups the back of my neck. "Sometimes I forget you're seventeen, but then you tell me to sit butt-naked on an oak tree, throwing Skittles at people, and I remember."

I blow on his face. He throws his head back in laughter.

"Although, come to think of it, that's just you and not your age."

"Why don't you rip my heart out."

My lips twitch, and he grins. He wets his lips and mutters, "I'd rather you give it to me voluntarily."

I place a kiss on my fingers and press it against his mouth. "There. Now go before you're late."

He nuzzles my neck, pressing his own kiss on my skin. His eyes are alight with humor. "See you later." He walks to my arch-y gap thing and stops. "Anything from the store?"

"Greek yoghurt, please. I'll pay you. Strip for you or be your slave for a week. Please."

He laughs and disappears before appearing again. "Any flavors?"

"Strawberry. Vanilla. Sunshine and butterflies and flying unicorns. Whatever you find."

He salutes and disappears.

I pick up my phone and let my finger hover over dad's name. He's three hours ahead of me, so it must be quarter to eleven in Georgia. Before I can change my mind, I dial his number.

"Bella? Hold on." A muffled noise. Half a minute later, with the distant sound of banging in the background, he greets me again. "Hi, honey. Five minutes. Are you alright?"

"You're not still working out, are you?"

"I have a few private sessions to make up for the time I lost," he explains. "You alright?"

"I'm walking. Slowly and with a walker, but I am."

"Really?" I hear a smile in his voice. "That's incredible."

"Yeah, thanks, dad," I reply. "I called because, well. I think I know why Newton burnt our house to the ground."

"I'm listening."

"Before Christmas, we were in the cafeteria and he started picking on me, so I—I bluffed, dad. I wanted to make him shut up. I told him I had his assault on camera and if he continued to bully anyone, I'd release it or something. He must've believed me because why else did he search my room and burn the house to the ground when he didn't find anything? So it's my fault. I'm so sorry, dad. I only wanted him to stop. I didn't mean for my words to count for anything."

I can hear his breathing before he says, "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright," he repeats and sighs. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're not mad or anything?"

"I'm—what's done is done, okay? The insurance will cover it. Don't beat yourself up. Focus on getting well."

"Are you sure you're not angry with me? Dad, please tell me if you are. Because I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I'm fine. Listen. I appreciate that you told me, and I trust you to do so in the future, but neither of us can change what happened. And maybe he had other reasons for doing it. We can't be sure. Just try to get well and don't start wandering anywhere trying to play the hero. I need you to be safe. I'll talk to you on Saturday."

"Okay. Be safe, dad. Love you."

He lets out a breath. "Love you too, honey. Talk to you soon."

: :

I awake to feel a cold hand behind my neck, a finger stoking my hair and wet lips against mine. I respond, smiling, and hear Edward's chest grumble when he hides his face in my neck. He smells of his mint shampoo.

"Someone's shaved."

He chuckles and rubs his jaw against mine. "I got you some yoghurt," he mutters as I feel his cold nose against my ear. "Flying unicorn flavor."

I laugh. "What time is it?"

"Quarter after nine." He runs both of his hands through my hair. "How do you feel?"

"A bit dizzy. All I ever do is sleep."

He pulls back. A large, palm-sized bruise covers the side of his jaw. It's dark. I lift my hand to his face and stroke his cheek, just above the bruise. He closes his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Newton and I had a disagreement."

"You _what_? Edward, don't start fighting with him. He's not worth it. Please."

"It wasn't like that. The coach made me the main quarterback because Newton's out. Because of his shoulder. Obviously, he can't train right now. But he's walking around right now like some fucking untouchable, the guy who lived or some shit. Others treat him like that, too, because two of his best friends died and it's so tragic. So he was in the gym and came to thank me for replacing him—for a month, he said—but the thing is, the coach told me this is permanent. He'd meant to do it for a while. So Newton and I—had a bit of an argument. He struck me, I punched him back, and we ended up in Mr. Kramer's office."

"You curse like a true gentleman, Edward. I've taught you well."

Edward huffs a chuckle and runs his fingers through my hair. I gently touch the skin above his bruise, and he offers a tight-lipped smile.

"Why would Mr. Kramer even be at school at this hour?"

"I don't know. He was."

"So then what happened?"

"I got detention. Newton got nothing, because he's going through a _trauma_ and he's _vulnerable_ because of what happened to his friends and fuck, Bella. You should see him walk around the school like he's some war hero. It's so subtle, nobody thinks he's arrogant. I wouldn't—if you hadn't told me what he's really like. A few people question Eric's reason for shooting him and what he said, but mostly, it gets brushed off because they think Eric was somewhat of a loner. Newton is still here to defend himself and Eric is not. So, basically, everyone's waiting for what you have to say about Eric's motives."

"Ah, shit."

"What?"

"I can't—not without evidence. I can't blame him without being able to back myself up."

He sits next to me. I put my hand in his and he intertwines our fingers.

"Please don't get into fights, with Newton or anyone else. I hate to see you get hurt."

He nods and kisses my fingers. "School is boring without you."

"I would imagine your seven hundred and one extra-curriculars would keep you occupied."

"Not the same," he answers and leans closer. "I brought you some homework earlier."

"Damn. I was hoping to get a kiss but you want to tell me about homework instead."

He chuckles, brushes hair off my forehead and presses his lips against mine, just slightly. "Someone named Zachary North called. He said he'd call you next week and talk to you personally, but neither of us got the modeling job."

"There goes my lifelong dream of being a model."

"You're not disappointed?"

"I'll be sobbing my eyes out because how could they not see I'm the prettiest bitch on this side of the States? Blind assholes."

Edward laughs. "I'll just ignore the sarcasm and pretend you meant it."

"I totally did. Besides, I'm more surprised by the fact that you weren't chosen. But I guess fitting a six foot five giant on a picture is kind of hard work. Either they're afraid of wrapping up your limbs or their cameras exploding from your hotness."

He smiles. "Eight."

"What?"

"Six foot eight."

"You're kidding me. Can you help me stand?"

He does. I clutch his sweatshirt, fisting my hands on his waist as he looks down at me with twinkling eyes. He lifts his chin ever so slightly to rub the top of my head with his jaw. Failing to suppress a smile, he pulls back and presses a kiss against my ear. "You never noticed?"

"No, I mean, yes. But you must have, like, ten inches on me. Can you raise your arms?"

Snickering, he places his palms flat against the ceiling. He's got the most adorable, amused grin on his face as I grip his sweatshirt and look up at him with awe.

"I hope you're not proportional, 'cause if you are, we are never having sex. Ever. I'll go and be a nun and you go and scare some innocent ladies to death."

Edward laughs, wraps his arms around me and squeezes me in the most gentle, cherishing way. "Jesus, I love you."

"I hope you don't masturbate to Jesus, because if you do, we're breaking up."

He's choking with laughter as he places me back on the bed. "I can't wait to bring my textbooks here and not get any studying done."

"Brilliant plan. Get yourself an ice pack as well. I want to dote on you."

: :

Eric's funeral is on Friday.

I take a cab. Once we're in front of the Episcopal Church, the driver helps me out of the car and hands me my walker. I squint at the sun. It's the second funeral I've been to, and honestly, I understand the symbolism of movies and books and all, but it's not raining. Not even cloudy. In fact, it seems extra bright.

The clang of the church's giant door echoes behind me. The church is empty. No coffin, nothing. I clutch my two dandelions and the walker, make it to the altar, and still nothing.

"Hello?"

My greeting echoes. I hear a rustle from the back, and Angela's dad, Priest Ian Weber, turns the corner. He brightens at the sight of me, or as much as his calm nature and the circumstances allow.

"Isabella. Good to see you on your feet. We waited for you. They're at the burial. Do you need any help?"

"Father Weber," I reply. "Could I leave the walker here and lean on your arm? I'm a bit faster that way."

"Of course."

They're at the edge of a forest past the chapel and behind the cemetery, just Ralph Yorkie and his wife. Both are wearing sunglasses and look considerably thinner than how I remember them. They greet me, and Eric's dad even attempts a smile, but it twists his features. Angela's dad says something or other about heaven and eternal peace and ashes and dust, and we simply stand there, squinting at the blinding sun, staring into the distance even if it's at our feet.

When it's time, I drop my two dandelions on his urn. I wish they flew, my dandelions. I wish they gained wings and speed and distance and never looked back. I wish they did what Eric never got to do. But they don't. They don't even have the decency to fall in slow motion. They just lie there, next to soil, waiting to turn into soil.

When the Priest has stopped talking, Ralph Yorkie turns to me.

"Would you like to come to our place for tea?"

I waver because now that I take a smaller dosage of narcotic pain pills, my back is killing me.

He shifts, expression carefully composed. "You were his closest friend."

I nod. Because you can't turn down an offer made in good faith after a shock of this kind, even if I'd never exaggerated his son's importance in my life. Because how do you make up for the fact that, while his closest friend, for me, he was someone I knew so little yet understood so well? You don't. You can't. What's done is done and no matter how hard I wish that Eric had confided in me to ease his burden, it won't happen anymore.

I catch sight of Eric's ex-girlfriend through the car window as we leave, and she recognizes me. I'm in a moving car and she's at the entrance of the cemetery, and we stare at each other before I offer the briefest of nods that she returns. She disappears as we turn the corner.

As we drive closer to the Yorkies' house, a whole spectrum of journalist-looking people waits for us on the lawn. Despite appearing unsurprised, Ralph Yorkie shakes his head and curses under his breath. He offers me a pair of sunglasses.

"Can you move better with a walker or without it?"

"Without."

"Hold on."

He's impatient, but I don't take it personally because we've got journalists on our faces, taking pictures of my pathetic gait and throwing questions at us. I don't know where they came from or if they find my presence particularly intriguing, but they scare me. Their buzz is muffled as the front door closes, and I'm facing towers of boxes and bare walls.

"We're moving," Ralph Yorkie explains and helps me sit around the round kitchen table. Unlike the walls that surround us, it's solid and clean.

"Green? Black? Herbal?"

"Fruit?"

"Black currant. Sugar or honey?"

"Either."

Eric's mother puts the kettle on. They both sit across from me, with Eric's mom placing the tea boxes in a line for no other reason than to give her something to do, and Ralph Yorkie staring at me so intensely he probably doesn't even realize he is. I shift. I can't say anything meaningful unless they bring it up themselves for fear of pushing, but I don't want to fill the silence with nondescript, trite words.

"I want to give you my number," Ralph Yorkie says suddenly, coming out of his trance. "So that if you need help with whatever you need to do to put the fucker in jail, I'll help you. Even if your means are unconventional."

He draws out the word unconventional as if he meant illegal, and I think he does. Regardless, I nod and let him save his number on my phone.

"Mr. Yorkie, I don't mean to assume anything, but did Eric—leave something to me? A letter? Anything?"

"Linda?"

Eric's mom shakes her head, and so does Mr. Yorkie.

"But—did anyone happen to break in last week?"

Both of their eyes snap on me.

"How did you know?"

"My room got broken in, too."

Mr. Yorkie's shoulders sag. "Do you want to see it? His room?"

"If you don't mind."

Eric's mom's eyes glaze over and she excuses herself. Tea is forgotten as Eric's dad and I walk to Eric's room at the back of the house, a room with no wallpaper, a few posters of rock bands, a single bed, and shelves thrashed on the floor. I step inside.

"Where're you moving?"

"I'm heading to Arizona."

"Oh, yeah? My mom's from there."

"How is she?"

"Dead."

His face twists, and he wants to apologize, but I avert my eyes and mutter, "I'm sorry. My bluntness gets away from me."

"No, it's—it's okay. I guess you—you're the kind of tough girl who goes through anything with a straight back. Eric always thought that about you."

I hum, pressing my lips together in a tight line as I take my tiny steps around the room.

"Did they take anything?"

"Just his camera. Maybe something else, too, but we're not—I'm not—Linda can't even think of Eric's room."

"It's not my place to pry, but is she—not coming with you?"

He steps closer to the window, hands in his pockets. With a distant, unseeing gaze, he says, "We've had it coming."

"I'm so sorry."

He doesn't hear me as he keeps staring into the distance. "Anywhere but here," he whispers and stares at his feet before raising his eyes. "Oh. Did you say anything?"

"No." I pace in the room and my eyes linger on a picture of Eric, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, as he lies under a truck, holding a camera and taking a picture of a sparrow. He's smiling. It brings an unexpected lump to my throat, and I press my lips together.

"For what it's worth, Mr. Yorkie, your son helped me through a lot in middle school."

"Thank you, Isabella." He makes eye contact but immediately averts his gaze. "Thank you."

: :

Ralph Yorkie takes me back to Edward's. He's given me a lot to think about, and as soon as I get home, I call both dad and Al to let them know Eric could have caught something on camera and it could be in Newton's possession. The good news is—if Eric had enough sense to hide the evidence so that it wouldn't be on the memory card, we're likelier than ever to actually hold solid, tangible evidence, like the very same memory card or a DVD or a hard drive. The bad news is, if he had it inside the camera, Newton could have destroyed the evidence by now, and that makes me want to get a search warrant or beat him to death.

On Saturday morning, I skim over the article (less than quarter of a page) that speaks about Eric's funeral and my presence but mostly gun control. I look at the photo taken behind the cemetery as we stand in line. I close the paper. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

A few minutes later, as Esme places a smoothie on my bedside table, she also places a large box on my bed. I offer to do her dishes for a year as a gesture of gratitude, but she laughs me off, caresses my hair and leaves me and Angela's package alone. They had it in the storage room so they forgot about it.

I slide it closer and turn it to tear off the duct tape, but the handwriting catches my attention. It's not Angela's.

It's Eric's.

Heart pounding rapidly in my chest, I tear off the duct tape and open the box. Two laptops slide out with their adapters. There's a letter.

Bella—

They're empty. Nothing on them. You can check. You can judge me for having them & tell everyone it was me who stole them. If you want to give them back with no sign of (me or) you, I think you should do it on Monday between five & six PM. Nobody's there. Seriously. They're all in the staff room.

I used them for the greater good.

I hope you've showed the world where the cookies are.

—Eric.

PS: Apologize for Angela for me if she gets in trouble for this. And for doing it twice. It's the only way to not cause suspicion.

Oh, Eric. What did you do?

: :

Sweat is falling in my eyes. I wipe it off with the back of my hand. With a pillow under my back, I lift my legs off the ground. My back is tight and my legs tingle like crazy, but I can't run, so I'm doing these exercises to clear my head. I've been at this since I opened Eric's package. It's lying under my bed.

I've made sense of several things. First, Eric stole the laptops "for the greater good." Meaning, he must've done something with them that could be or would have been considered evidence against Michael Newton. Secondly, evidence is not with the laptops. It could be "where the cookies are." His dad's workplace? Why would he do that? Thirdly, and most importantly, he claims to have used Angela's name twice and I've only seen this one. Where did he use it the second time, and does that coincide with where the evidence is?

Did he mean to tell me more than he did in Spanish? Or did he mean for me to find a letter or a message or a memory card or a hard drive before this package, so that I'd understand this message?

I do realize I'm dealing with stolen property. But I desperately want to defend him, in my own eyes as well as in the world's. Everyone already hates him. And I know, maybe he shouldn't have stolen these laptops, but it pains me how much I understand him. There are moments in life when you do whatever you need to do to gain insight and reveal the truth. I don't want him to be labeled a thief on top of being a murderer. I know it doesn't matter anymore to him (or the world), but it matters to me, and I'm desperate to see how he made sense of the world.

I don't call Marshal Stephens. I don't call dad. I know I should. Maybe I'm digging myself into a hole. If Eric used illegal means to uncover what Michael Newton was doing, do I want to risk my integrity to see what Eric meant by evidence, and if it actually exists?

Yes.

I'll return the laptops, free of fingerprints, to the schoolhouse.

: :

Despite my setbacks, I grow stronger, physically and mentally. Day by day, I do my absolute best to exercise as much as I can. Sometimes I get angry at myself and cry, sometimes Edward or Carlisle or Esme makes me stop exercising so much so that I wouldn't hurt myself. I Skype dad twice a week to let him know how I'm improving.

When I weigh myself on Tuesday (115 pounds), I let out a growl so angry and sad and loud that Esme comes to check on me. I apologize and explain, and she makes me pasta with some nut sauce to increase my calorie intake. It's delicious, and she's so kind, but I can't eat much of it. My shrunk stomach needs to be adjusted to amounts appropriate to humans and not mice.

By Wednesday, I can walk short distances without a walker. It's incredible. I don't drag my left foot (much) because I've given it special attention. Half of my exercises are focused on it, and they pay off.

It's not always smooth sailing, but I'm starting to be able to do the little things: bend over, sleep on my stomach, scratch my knees. Crouch. Nothing drastic. I can't run. I can't lift moose or sumo wrestlers.

But.

Veni, vidi, vici. I can do this. I know I can. So maybe my recovery is slower than I hoped it would be, and I won't be able to run for at least a few months, maybe even until September, but I'm improving. I walk slowly, and I only feel pins and needles in my legs in the mornings.

On Thursday afternoon, I pack the laptops and their adapters in a plastic bag, put them in my back bag, add my little metal box to put it in my locker and call myself a cab. Ralph Yorkie has agreed to see me at his workplace, so I do just that, but after searching and observing under and around each bowl of cookies, we find nothing.

What did you mean, Eric? Couldn't you have made this a little easier?

Next, my cab pulls up in front of North Cedar High. I pay the driver and step out. Through puddles, I take my small steps toward the schoolhouse. As the students who notice me come to say hi, I realize I've never spoken to a single one of them. Fortunately, the classes have ended so the schoolhouse is nearly empty. I take off my shoes in the wardrobe, sit to rest my back, and slowly climb upstairs. I already know what I'm going to do if I get caught. Depending on who it is, I'll show them Eric's letter or take the blame. I'm prepared to do either.

The secretary's room is lit, and a printer is working. Very carefully, I take off my back bag, take out the plastic bag and place it on the bench that's closest to the door. I hear voices on the inside and listen to my increasing heartbeat before zipping up my bag. I throw it on my shoulder and walk away.

I stop before entering 106.

A white tablecloth covers two tables that are pushed together. There's a candle and pictures of Shawn Holstein and Jared Bronn surrounded by letters and flowers and cards. I lean against the wall. I stare. I unzip my bag, take out my metal box, flip through my papers and find the picture I'm looking for. I fold it several times, back and forth, and rip myself out of the picture. I'm about to disgrace the memory of Shawn and Jared and I don't care if anyone sees me do it or not.

I replace Shawn's picture with Eric's before placing the picture frame in the middle of flowers. I wrap Shawn's picture in a ball, take Jared's frame, and throw both of them in the nearest thrash can.

The auditorium's door is almost too heavy for me to pull, but I manage. I step inside. Only the stage is lit. My peers are sitting or lying in a semi-circle with their back to me as Peter sits with his leg resting on the edge of the stage. Irina, Cody and Edward are standing. Edward is talking.

"—back it up. So when you sit there, think about that. Ask him like you mean it. What do you think Bella would say about your performance?"

Peter has made everyone teach each other, he sometimes does, and I love it that Edward has enough authority for everyone to be quiet.

Irina shifts from one leg to the other as she brushes dust off the edge of her skirt. "Peter?"

"Yes, Irina?"

"Can I curse?"

"Only if you don't tell your mother I let you."

She smiles. One of her front teeth is missing. She straightens her shoulders. "She'd tell me to take that fucking stick out of my ass and think about something I really, really want. She'd also tell me to juggle with three oranges with a straw sticking out of my mouth." She looks down, embarrassed by her cursing, and shrugs. "Just 'cause."

Everyone bursts into laughter, and I smile at Peter as he discovers my presence. I put a finger on my mouth to indicate I'd rather just sit and watch. I start to do just that when Irina catches sight of me.

"Look! It's Bella!"

Confused, everyone turns, and upon catching sight of me, they stand and jump off the stage, and suddenly, I'm in the middle of a swarm of students, greeting and questioning and smiling. It's wonderful. Edward steps next to me with a beaming smile, intertwines my fingers with his and kisses my temple.

"How'd you get here?"

"Cab."

I lean against him just a little bit to ease the tension of my back. Everyone is telling me their stories of what they saw and heard and assumed and saw on TV and YouTube and read on paper. I'm overwhelmed. Edward presses me tight against him and says, "C'mon guys. Let her breathe."

They step back a bit, and while I go and sit on the edge of the stage to look at what they're working on, it becomes clear that nobody's committed to doing any work. I've caused too much excitement. Peter sighs as he watches my peers have fun and throw questions at me. I offer him an apologetic smile.

"Alright, everyone. You're free for today."

They cheer, and I'm surrounded by questions about Eric, my injuries and home. I do answer as best as I can, just not entirely. It's a longer story than they think. Once we're outside of 106 and Edward locks the door before giving the keys to a crutch-bound Peter, I watch my Drama peers pass the table that's going to cause me trouble tomorrow.

As the sound of Peter's crutches grows distant, Edward takes my bag, squeezes my hips and carefully makes me back up against the wall. With his legs on either side of mine, he encases my neck and breathes on my lips. There's hunger in his eyes. He nips my lower lip, and leans in for a desperate kiss. He groans when I return it, pulls away and breathes on my neck.

"Did you come to surprise me?" Stroking the exposed skin on my hip, he rubs his nose against my neck and sucks on my skin. He slides his palm under my hoodie (but over my elastic corset) and tickles my waist with his fingers. "Best idea ever," he whispers.

You know the feeling when you make it to the top of the hill and start driving down, and your stomach forgot it was attached to your body? Yes. That. For the first time, I fully understand what Edward meant when he told me he's too far gone for me. I wish my life were a romance novel where the protagonist is always convinced (s)he's more in love with the hero(ine) than vice versa, but I don't have that. In a strange sort of epiphany, as Edward tenderly holds me against a hallway wall at our school yet kisses me like he wants to breathe the carbon dioxide leaving my body and makes me feel like I'm a girl more beautiful than any other, I actually realize he could be right.

I don't know how or why, and I can't believe it's possible, but by his hunger, I'd say that Edward has already fallen while I'm still falling. It's a sobering thought, and so flattering I don't know how to react to it, but it worries me. I don't want to hurt him. I can't tell him I didn't come here for him. He'd be hurt. He'd retreat. He'd apologize.

"I couldn't get myself off, so I thought you could help."

Edward pulls back, just slightly, eyes alight with desire, and blinks at me. I smile, a smile I hope to be wicked and wide. Edward continues to blink at me before I hear a silent chuckle as he envelops me into an all-body, all-consuming hug. He's turned on, and I'm flattered he'd be comfortable letting me know. I am, too, yes, but even I can admit I wouldn't be ready for the next step mentally, even if I were physically.

"You're joking," he whispers against my ear. I nod, and he squeezes me. "I've missed you."

"You saw me yesterday evening."

"Exactly." He pulls back, lips wet and red from kissing. As a wicked thought occurs to me, I change our places and press Edward up against the wall, slide my palm under his shirt and pull his head down so I could kiss his neck. His chest grumbles, and he starts to hyperventilate before he squirms, groans and takes hold of my wrist. "I _am_ a man."

"Oops, sorry. I was just about to grope your breasts. My bad."

Again, he blinks at me and laughs. He shifts his jeans, places an arm on my shoulder, a kiss on my temple and pulls me against him. We start to walk.

"You don't know the power."

"Of what?"

"Your touch, your skin, your lips."

"Wait, Edward. Don't move." I stop my pace. "I think I'm having an eargasm." I let out a funny little fake moan. Edward just shakes his head as the tips of his ears redden. He lowers his gaze and avoids eye contact, and I just know I've hurt him. "Edward? I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says, like I burnt his dinner and didn't undermine the words that were said in earnest. I facepalm, taking a breath. I stop my pace.

"No. I know it sounded like sarcasm, but I—fuck. It's incredible that you are who you are, you know? It is unbelievable that you find me attractive, and that I could turn you on. You're amazing, and I love it that you're so open about feelings. I'm just—an idiot. A fucking moron. Maybe you should just—"

He waits, and as I don't say anything, he mutters, "I should just what?"

Find someone who deserves you.

I don't say it. I'm not suicidal. How can I be honest when I know he'll be hurt by my answer? But if I don't say it, it's like I'm keeping something he should definitely know. Maybe he does, though. Maybe he's expecting it.

"I should just what?" he asks, louder. His tone is clipped, like he knows what I'm thinking.

I lift my arms and wrap myself around him like my dream is to sow myself into his shirt so that I could always be with him. I squeeze. I sniff the smell of him and this soap-smelling sweatshirt, and press my ear tightly against his chest. I listen to his heartbeat. He recovers from surprise, hides his face in my neck and hugs me back.

Mr. Banner passes us, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

"I need time," I whisper. "Please."

He sounds like he's choking as I feel his Adam's apple move. "You don't want to do this?"

"No! I do. Not that."

"Jesus Christ." Edward's shoulders slump, and his body relaxes like a rubber band. "I just had a stroke."

"I'm sorry." I sigh. "I mean—I can't do this overnight, Edward. When you've spent half of your life creating coping mechanisms for how undesirable you are and assuring yourself it's okay for nobody to want you, you can't just snap out of it and jump off a cliff and be comfortable swimming when you've taught yourself you're okay on the shore. Even though the sea is mysterious and you've admired it from afar for so long. I need to take baby steps closer to the water so that I could let myself go and look back at the seashore and swim in the knowledge that what I thought I knew wasn't so on par with reality. That I could create my reality. That there's someone in whose reality I am beautiful."

My tears wet Edward's sweatshirt, and my breath comes out as shaky, but I stay silent. Edward, too, takes a shaky breath as he strokes my back with his fingers.

"You'd make one incredible poet."

I snort a laugh and sniff. "But will you help me swim?"

"Of course I will," he replies, pulls back and strokes my cheek with his thumb. "What do I need to do?"

"Tell me. Tell me when I hurt you, and why, and how, and how I can avoid it. Can you do that? I need a step by step program. I can work on myself on my own, but I'm blunt, and I deadpan. I do it at inappropriate moments, like when you're being so sweet my heart wants to pound out of my chest, and I look around because how can you say those words and mean them while looking at me? What you said before about, you know, my touch? I'm so flattered I could fly."

He brushes hair from my forehead and kisses it. "You could."

"Maybe I will," I reply, and intertwine his fingers with mine. "Tell me? Please tell me."

He nods, and I steal a kiss to make sure we're okay, and he lingers, staring into my eyes like he's willing me to believe how much he means his words. I get goose bumps, and Edward notices, lifts his eyes to meet mine, and grins. "Really?"

I lower my gaze. Edward's beam widens as his ears redden. We start to walk.

"I've never given a girl goose bumps just by looking at her," he says, voice filled with wonder, and looks at me. I return his gaze, smile, and squeeze his hand. We walk to the end of the corridor and to our lockers before Edward smiles, almost to himself.

"Eargasm, huh?"

: :

_Friday, the 26__th__ of March  
6:03 PM. Starting to recover from shock. At least that's what they told me I have. Well, I'm listening to something as cheesy as Andrew Allen, so that's good, right?_

Dr. Heilbronner allows me to attend school on Friday. He gives me a note (to show every teacher) which says that I can't sit for longer than thirty minutes and that I should be allowed to step out of the classroom to stretch and walk. I only have two pills left to take twice a day. And Tylenol whenever I need in reasonable amounts. I can walk (my slow walk) on my own for ten or twenty minutes before needing support, and ergo, I should take my walker with me. But it's a nuisance. I don't want to. Carlisle isn't pleased by my choice to not take it, but he yields once I mention how difficult it will be to carry my walker when I have to take the stairs.

Edward copies my schedule for himself to be able to walk me to classes. I argue, because I share almost half of my classes with Angela and some with Emmett, and there's nobody in my classes I couldn't bug about helping me, but he brushes me off. Like it's a matter of pride and not his own convenience. He's sweet, and seems to be genuinely excited about walking me to classes, so I stop arguing. I'd love to spend more time with him at school, I just hate being a nuisance. Especially to him.

Edward locks the car as I stand and squint at the morning sun. It's (relatively) warm. Students rush toward the schoolhouse, talking, laughing, wearing ear pads, revising for a test. Appearing remarkably unaffected by the events that happened three weeks ago.

Frowning, Edward slides his hand on my waist and brushes hair off my forehead. He mutters, "You don't have to do this." He presses a light kiss on my mouth and takes my hand in his.

"I do. I'm restless at home." I squeeze his hand. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I try and fail to lift myself on my tiptoes, so instead, I bring his head down and press my lips against his. He slides his hands behind my back, opens his mouth to return the kiss, and rests his forehead against mine. By his smile, it's like he's found his own secret source of delight, and it's me.

"I love it when you do that," he says, sliding his hand in mine. We start walking.

"What, kiss you? I would certainly hope so."

"No." He's all toothy smiles and affectionate eyes. "I love it when you take the initiative. It comes so naturally to you."

"You think so?"

He nods. "If you hadn't had the experience you did in middle school? You'd probably be the most confident, outgoing girl in this school. I'd probably be watching you on the sidelines, never daring to approach you to get to know you."

"What an unlikely scenario," I reply. "I suppose I'd be too stuck up to speak to you?"

"No. I doubt. You would've been incredibly sweet and led me on without knowing it. All the school boys would've been dying to get your attention."

"Why, Edward, are you saying I'm not a heart breaker in this reality? You wound me so."

He makes eye contact, looks at our joined hands, and locks eyes with me again. "No," he says in earnest. "I just hope that once they all see you like I see you, your choice has been made." The smile he gives me is almost shy, and he searches my eyes. For what, I don't know.

"You're a bit ridiculous, you know?"

"I'm glad you think so," he replies, amused. Once inside, we're facing two guards in blue suits, both women, and a metal detector. Students are peeling off their coats as their back bags move through an X-ray machine, or whatever it is. Confused, I look at Edward as he starts to help me out of my coat.

"You're kidding me."

As we're through the detector, Edward throws both of our bags on his shoulder and takes our coats. He ignores my protests and slides his hand in mine. "You didn't see it yesterday?"

"I didn't use the front door."

"They installed it last week. It's been in use since Monday."

It doesn't fit in the old schoolhouse at all, and I watch as some seniors try to get a kick out of the guards, but otherwise, everyone is silently complying with this. It's strange. How can they not see this is not the point at all? They're fighting the result, not the cause.

On our slow, leisure-looking walk to the wardrobe and our lockers, countless students greet me, call my name, ask how I'm doing. I smile and talk and laugh and greet them back while having absolutely no clue as to who they are or why they're speaking to me. Edward holds my hand all through it, with this proud, almost smug-looking grin on his face.

"What?" he asks.

I lean closer to him and wrap my fingers around his sweater to support myself. Holding hands with him is new and exciting and makes some heads turn, but it doesn't offer long-term support for my back. Understanding what I'm doing, he wraps a gentle hand around my waist, still looking at me with that smug smile.

"What's gotten into everyone?" I ask, voice lowered. "I don't know any of those people."

"But they know you now."

"Because of what happened?"

"Yes," he replies. "And because you've been the talk of the school for two weeks. I had to provide daily updates on how you were doing."

"I'm sorry. That must've been annoying."

"Bella, you took a fucking bullet for me, okay? It was—flattering, actually, for them to turn to me when asking about you."

I hide my face in his neck and hug him.

There's a whistle and a whoop before my brother yells on the other side of the corridor, "My fuckawesome sister is here! Isabella Swan, ladies and gentlemen, the bulletproof girl! Shoo, Edward, let me."

Edward retreats, just a bit, and Emmett crushes me into a sweet but painful hug.

"Ow."

He pulls back, hands on my shoulders, looking me over. He looks mildly apologetic.

"Sorry," he says, grinning. "Where's your walker? I thought you'd have a walker."

"It's at home. It's not convenient for stairs."

"Right." He steps next to Jasper and an awkward-looking Laurent as Edward takes Emmett's place again. Looking at Edward, my brother continues, "Fifth and sixth lesson?"

Edward nods, and Laurent opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something, but makes eye contact with Edward and closes it again. Emmett ruffles my hair before they leave. People continue to say hi to me as they pass. It's like I've been offered a day in someone else's body.

I put a few notebooks in my locker as Edward loyally stands by my side. It's surreal, walking around the school with him, holding hands. Awesome, too. Makes me feel like the girl I am.

When Mr. Newton enters the classroom and his eyes wander on us, searching, I feel a jolt go through my stomach. He makes eye contact and halts for barely a second. He tries so hard to act normal the entire lesson that he'd only act more strangely if he started to tap dance to Tina Turner. He's overly kind, absent-minded, and worn, perhaps. Tired. I wonder if he's found out about his son's extra-curricular activities.

The first time Michael Newton passes me in a corridor, Edward squeezes my hand, and I just stare at Newton, his blonde hair and blue eyes and all-American boyish smile that fades when he locks eyes with me. He hesitates, tells something to his group of friends, and strolls over to me. He's got a nasty bruise on his temple.

We get curious looks when he stops in front of me. Edward steps forward, like he wants to protect me, and grits his teeth together. Their height difference is comical.

"Can I speak to you for a second? I think there's been a misunderstanding." Newton looks at me, and I'm flabbergasted that he's talking to me the way he talks to other people. Like he's nice. Like he gives a shit.

"A misunderstanding?" I repeat, like I've never heard of the word before. "Suck my dick, Newton."

Newton blinks at me. Edward is gripping my waist like it's the only thing keeping him from bouncing on the guy, and suddenly, Emmett is there. Jasper, Laurent, Jessica, even Tyler, they're all there, in front of me, acting like a shield against his words. Newton takes a surprised step back. No-one's ever been there to protect me from him. He glances at his group of friends.

"Walk. Now. Before you find your skull in your butt."

Edward draws out his words, his voice low and meaning unambiguous. Newton returns to his group and they walk away.

"Never been able to stand the guy," Tyler says, adding an exaggerated shudder. "Just rubs me the wrong way."

As they all walk with me to my next class like nothing had happened, I wonder what Emmett told them. I don't think he said anything specific. He couldn't have. But, somehow, he's made my group of friends aware of Newton's true nature so that they watch out for me. It's incredible and it's heartwarming and I just want to buy them tickets to a monster truck show or something.

Angela hugs the bejesus out of me in Literature and sits next to me across the aisle. Just before the class, she asks, "Why did you do it?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"The photo. Everyone's talking about it."

"It's, you know, fair game."

"You replaced the _victims'_ photos with the _shooter's_, Bella. Do you know how serious that is?"

"There was only one victim who died in the shooting," I reply. "The one holding the gun."

She sighs. "I know he was teased in middle school, but come on. Doing what you did? It's so dangerous. I don't want you to get in trouble."

Teasing is when you take someone's textbook and let them chase you for it. Repeatedly raping someone does not qualify.

"So what? I'm just supposed to stand back while everyone pours blind hatred at Eric like he just went nuts and shot random people? I'm not saying I approve of his methods. I'm saying it's a fucking shame nobody tries to look into his story."

The teacher arrives and hushes us, and through the entire lesson, Angela keeps glancing at me. I take my short breaks and try to clear my head. I love Angela. She understands me so well. And I know that just because she recognized a picture she took, and knows it was me, she's not going to tell on me. But I don't know how to explain myself to her without revealing the Newton incident, and I'm not ready for that.

There is, in fact, a camera in front of 106, and it's only a matter of time before someone comes to get me to take me to Principal Wallace Kramer.

I'll just face the consequences.

During the next few breaks, I see Newton a few more times, but what really makes me do a double take is not only Alice's presence in his group of friends, but how familiar Newton is with her. Just before lunch, I see them kiss. It creeps me out. When we're waiting in line for lunch, I observe their table, and tug Edward's hand.

"Edward? Can you take a plateful for me, too?"

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" He runs a hand through my hair. "I'll take you."

"No—I just need to do something. Stay here, okay?"

"What do you need to do?"

"Just—stay here." I place brief kiss on his lips. "Please."

I walk to Newton's table with my leisurely-looking pace, and the table quiets as I stop. Newton's arm is flung over Alice's chair, but he wants to get up when he seems me. I look at Alice.

"Can I speak to you?"

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Please. This will only take a minute."

"I can speak to you," Newton says, starting to get up, but I take a step back.

"Not you. Her."

"I'll speak for her." He gets up. I retreat, just a bit. I can see Emmett and Edward watching us like hawks. A few eyes are turned around nearby tables.

"You don't get to burn my fucking house down and act like I've misunderstood something."

With a quirked eyebrow, Alice observes Newton's face. Then, she looks back at me and says, "You're a liar."

Newton freezes, just for a second, and as we lock eyes, I know that _he_ _knows_ that I just made the connection. As little as I understand Newton, I do understand he wants Alice to shut up.

"I don't care if you think I'm a fucking Santa Claus. I need to speak to you. You can tell them everything I told you word for word."

It is Newton who ushers her to speak to me. I shake my head at my brother and Edward as we pass, and once we're out of the cafeteria, I lean against the wall.

"Look: this is the amount of shit I give about what you think about me." I raise my fist and lock eyes with her. She's so short. "None. But here's the thing. Eric didn't go crazy. He had a reason, a very good reason, to feel cornered and desperate and helpless, and that reason is sitting next to you. I don't like you, and I know you don't like me, so we're even, but nobody deserves the shit Newton is capable of, alright? Nobody. You included."

She lifts her chin. "Oh, yeah? He told me you're a bit woo-hoo in the head and that you might make shit like this up."

"So you just blindly believe the fairy tales he feeds you?"

"Why would he have a reason to lie to me?"

"Why would _I _have a reason to lie to you?"

"Oh, please. You're just jealous of the attention I get from guys as popular as him."

"Get your head out of your ass and use the brains that have been soaked in there for so long. I'm not here for a fucking popularity contest, and Newton wouldn't interest me if he looked like Brad Pitt. He's a lousy excuse for a human being, and the sooner you steer clear of him, the better."

She runs her finger over her painted nails. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

She walks back to the cafeteria, and seconds later, Edward is by my side, holding me as I lower my head and let out a breath. "She wouldn't listen."

"To what? What did you tell her?"

I shake my head, and we walk back to the cafeteria. My friends have made me a cake that has a picture of a bulletproof vest on it, and as we eat and joke and laugh, I look over at Alice and find myself locking eyes with Newton. He averts his eyes like nothing has happened, and I feel lost. Powerless. How can I prove the shit he did? Really prove it? How?

Just when I've lost hope, I find myself in my last lesson, Spanish, struggling to keep up and writing like crazy. When my notebook falls on the ground, I pick it up. It opens from where Eric and I did our exercise. He has scribbled a seven on the edge, with several lines going through it, and it looks like absent-minded nonsense. Next to it, he's written, _where the cookies are._

Frantic, I flip through my entire notebook, searching for other clues, anything. I search through my textbook. Nothing. Think, Bella, think.

What did he mean, where the cookies are? Where? At the store? At Ralph Yorkie's workplace? Should I go back and re-check? In my locker? My locker was empty of clues, I checked. In my kitchen? No longer here to check. In my mailbox? In seventh grade, I sometimes bought cookies myself and hid them—

Holy fuck. My house is number seven. He means my mailbox. He couldn't have known I'd moved, and he must've sent me a letter. It's so easy and so obvious I laugh out loud, exhilarated. The teacher stops speaking and frowns at me. I cough, apologize, and look at my notebook. My heart beats frantically in my chest.

What if Newton got there first? What if it's not there? If Eric thought I'd be living at home, why would he need to give me clues to get there? Did he prepare and pass my house and see that there was nobody living in it, so he must clue me in as to where he put the evidence? Why couldn't he just tell me? Or give it to me?

What if he's speaking metaphorically?

Spanish couldn't end soon enough. If I could run, I'd run through my school and go straight home, but I can't, so I order myself a cab and hear myself giving Edward some flimsy excuse. I was supposed to go to his guitar lesson with him before he took me to Dr. Hunter, and I can see that he's disappointed, but I kiss him with the life in me and promise to do it the next time. I'm a girl on a mission.

My cab pulls up in front of the wreck pretending to be my home, and I wish I could say I run to my mailbox and throw it open, or something equally appropriate for a criminal novel. But no, to a casual observer, I walk my leisurely-looking walk to it. I pull it open.

It's filled with advertisements and mail, mostly to dad. I flip through them, one by one, hold them between my thighs and reach for a thick, crumpled envelope at the back. I can feel my heart in my throat as I read Eric's handwriting on the envelope.

It's a miracle Newton didn't think of looking into my mailbox. A fucking miracle.

There's no stamp. I carefully grip the DVDs as I take out Eric's letter.

Bella—

If everything went according to plan, then I am no longer here. Who knows, maybe you even went to my funeral? I wouldn't put it past you.

If everything went according to plan, then Michael Newton is no longer here, either. That was the whole point. Regardless, I want to give this responsibility to you, whatever you may choose to do with it.

In this letter, you will find seven DVDs with content that you may not want to watch. After piecing them together, neither did I. I have never picked them up after they're finished.

This will hurt you, but maybe you'll understand.

I know what happened to you—I got it on tape. Among the DVDs, I've marked the fifth one with black scribble. It looks like I've checked if the marker works—but really, it's a sign to you. That DVD has you on it. I want you to have the choice of not showing it to anyone. It's the only copy. You can destroy it.

After the first time, I started to leave a camera to see if he used the same spot for all of it. He did. I would like to think that I would've helped you had I been there, but I don't know. If I'd been there and if I did try to help you, I would've—once again—been in the receiving end of this shit. I've been there a time too many. I wouldn't have had the authority to stop them. They would've pressed me against the wall like they did to you. In fact, they have. I accidentally got the last one on tape & you can have a look at it—if you want. Fucking nightmare.

Why did I not stop him after it became clear what he was doing? I don't know. Fear, maybe. Responsibility. It didn't feel like enough evidence to lock him up for good & I'd waited for too long to justify postponing. You can judge me, you can not, I guess I won't care because I'm no longer here, am I?

I don't think you remember much of me in middle school, but you really helped a lot. Just surviving. Even then, you sort of had that assuring quality about you. As if it's possible to make it.

It's not much, but I'm glad I knew you. Even a little bit. The world would be a better place if there were more people like you in it. Maybe one day you'll understand, or maybe you won't, or maybe the DVDs will make you understand why I couldn't continue like this. Maybe you already do. I wouldn't put that past you, either.

I ask that you burn my note. Of course, you don't have to—after all, I won't be here to see if you do give those tapes to police. I'd rather you give them to journalists, but your dad is a cop and you might do just that. Or you might not do anything. The choice is yours, but really—please do something. Give them to someone. Make people see.

—Eric.


	20. Girl with the Pink Glasses

**A/N: **Special thanks to Saguenay for recommending this story and making me snort apple juice out of my nose. I'm petrified by the attention this story has gotten recently, so thank you for offering feedback that's so bloody thoughtful, for having theories, for telling me what makes you sniff and what makes you giggle, for pointing out my mistakes and telling me how much you need me to update. How wonderful are you? Thank you. :)

* * *

"But I think the first real change in women's body image came when JLo turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of _mainstream_ American beauty. Girls wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them. And then, what felt like _moments_ later, boom—Beyoncé brought the leg meat. A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired. And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful.

"Ah ha ha. No. I'm totally messing with you. All Beyoncé and JLo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful. Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes."

― Tina Fey, _Bossypants_, page 22

: :

I'm sitting under my table, leaning against the wall with a pillow behind my back, holding Carlisle's Macintosh in my lap. I enter the DVD that has black scribble on it into the DVD drive and wait. I'm not the slightest bit hot yet my palms are sweating. My heartbeat picks up as a dim night appears on VLC Player. A few blades of grass move in the wind at the bottom of the screen, but the figures are close. Good. It works.

Five figures stand at the corner of a warehouse, drinking and roaring, smoking and talking. I'm surprised by the quality of audio. Vulgar language is used, and not like mine. Stories are being told, boasting stories of teenage acts of stupidity, of nights getting wasted and having sex. Stories of tight situations and close calls. There's a general sense of admiration of Newton's masterful ability to go under the radar doing the things he does. His posture is cocky, expression smug, and he acts like a leader of sorts. Cryptic sentences are being said, messages I can't decipher but body language that I can. Whatever the others tell him, his response is proud, smug, somewhat blasé. Almost faking nonchalance while pleased by their praise.

At one point, two figures leave.

I appear, with my awkward gait, shoulders slightly hunched as I watch my feet and kick pebbles. I don't notice them, but when I do, I go rigid. Like a frozen panic. Words are shared. My bag is thrown out of the way and I'm shoved against the wall.

I pause, shut the window and take out the DVD. Panting, I feel my hands shake as I clutch the DVD and bend it. It breaks. I keep breaking it until my fingers are bleeding and I've got pieces so tiny I could fit them in a matchbox.

Eric, if you can hear me—thank you. I'll never be able to repay you for the opportunity to keep this for myself.

I find a tissue for my little wounds and watch the four DVDs that are numbered in order. The first one starts off with piano music I can't recognize, it's beautiful and haunting. It surprises me. Blank screen fades into distance, and I'm looking at—myself.

Holy fuck.

I'm sitting on a bench, holding the very same back bag in my lap as I giggle and roll my eyes at Eric's attempts to use the camera. Joggers bypass as we banter. Finally, the focus clears, and you can almost count the hairs on my perpetual braid. I'm smiling. The camera zooms in on me as Eric sits beside me.

"Who do you want to be when you grow up?"

I see myself watching into the distance. "If you laugh, I will turn you into a centaur."

"I won't. Promise."

"I'd like to act, I think," I reply, with a sort of shy smile.

"Why?"

"Because I want to be someone else."

There's so much vulnerability in my posture but I look straight at the camera. A second later, I huff. "Eric, how are you going to be a director? You can't even hold the camera."

"Directors don't hold cameras."

"I know that," I reply. "Give me that. Let me show you."

In my know-it-all way, I start to teach him how to hold it so that the camera wouldn't waver so much. He laughs at me, and we end up bantering before it cuts away from the scene.

I can't believe he'd put an excerpt of how we made our sixth grade social studies homework into this. I only vaguely remember the assignment itself.

It flows like a movie, like a candid camera with shots taken from his locker, from his back bag, from under the table, from a distance. It's careful and inconspicuous. Each scene has the exact date and time underneath. It stars Michael Newton's group, of course, as he gets praised for being such a good student and how he acts without the teachers around. It cuts to scenes of actual rape with the victim's face always hidden. Not even pixelated, just black. I cringe and facepalm through the scenes. More often than not (depending on the alcohol that's been consumed, I assume), Newton's and his companions' faces are covered by masks, but—to me—his voice is almost always recognizable.

Then, it cuts to the school, a scene where someone (sometimes me) is bullied followed by an excerpt of an interview with Eric that his dad took. His eyes burn when he talks about directing movies one day.

As the DVDs go along, it gets darker. I skip scenes. I can't watch Michael Newton next to the warehouse. Because he's got a style and a preference and a pattern, and often his friends join. It's like a sick game for them, boasting about how much they've gotten away with. As I start to understand their little cryptic sentences, I get nauseated. There's a scene where a gangly, short girl is forced to—do what I did. But she vomits, and he takes her from the back. I skip the scene.

There's a scene of me acting on stage as I play Catherine in _The Memory of Water_ and earn a bundle of tulips for my performance. I'm beaming as I curtsy and glance at Mrs. Cope. She's standing up as she applauds. It cuts to a corridor where bunch of girls laugh at my gait and pour Fanta on my bag. Then, Michael Newton, pressing me and Eric against the wall in an empty corridor as he and his friends take away our lunch money.

At the end of the fourth DVD, after a gruesome and sadistic DVD that I almost entirely skipped, it cuts to me, twenty sixth of April three years ago, as I lie on my jacket, swinging my legs and revising for a test. Birds are signing and the sun is unrelenting. It creates flares. A silent piano plays in the background.

Eric zooms in on me.

"Bella," he says, and I look up at him, squinting.

"We've got a test in Math, Eric, aren't you worried?"

Ignoring my question, he asks, "Would you star in a film I directed?"

I hear my laugh, slightly awkward and neigh-like. For the first time, hearing my laugh doesn't bother me. It's kind of unique and funny.

Eric sits next to me, patient.

"Would you?"

"Eric, in order for us to turn into any kind of human beings, we need to study to get out of this hellhole. And you need to actually learn how to use a camera and pick it up more often than once a year. Maybe talk, too, sometimes. Like twice a year."

"Would you?" he repeats as if he hadn't heard me.

"Sure." I hear myself scoff, but I'm clearly amused. "If you make a screen adaption of _The Power of the_ _Dog_ and let me play Mr. Keller."

"But he's a—_he_?"

"Eric, you did not just hint I'd suck at playing a man. I will play such a man I'll grow myself a penis!" I watch myself blush furiously at my words, lower my gaze and sit to be eye-level with Eric. "Okay. Let's make a deal. Once we get out of college when I'm a skilled, famous actress and you're au fait at directing, we'll do a movie together. Promise me."

"Au fait? I thought you didn't like languages."

"Shut up. It's the only French phrase I know," I reply in my know-it-all way. "Now promise."

"Promise." He pauses. "What will it be about, though?"

"Something truthful and quirky that actually matters." I shrug, and look at him with my bossy smile. I lift my textbook and resume to reading. He turns the camera towards the sun and flares dance on the screen.

The screen goes black.

I stifle a sob and shut the screen, cradle the blood-stained tissue in my hands as I weep and take deep, shaky breaths to calm myself. Like I did with others, I copy this DVD in a folder before taking it out. I open YouTube and expect uploading to be incredibly confusing, but it's not. It will just take a while.

I enter a DVD that has 'Evidence' scribbled on top, and wait for it to open. When it does, I cringe, watch the DVD through my fingers and skip most of it. This one is clearly for the police. It's raw, not artistic like the amateur movie he made, and it features Newton's group and their acts of horror. No face is hidden. Each scene (or—as I later realize—person) is numbered, and the numbers aren't in order. Instead, scenes are in chronological order. Each number refers to a victim—seven in total (excluding me and Eric.) Number two and seven appear repeatedly, others don't.

What strikes me is that they come to _search for_ him. By what is said, the victims have a preconceived idea of who he is, some have romantic notions, but all are equally horrified when friendly, smiley Michael Newton changes his acts and his company appears. Other times, when the kids in search of him, they face the victims in masks from the start. It's sickening.

I don't watch the DVD with Eric on it. I don't need to see that.

All in all, I have two DVDs for the police, four for the journalists.

I copy four files—the ones that make a movie—on one memory stick, two on another, and leave the laptop open for it to upload the videos. I wash my hands and put a few Band-Aids on them. I put DVDs in an envelope under my mattress. Maybe I'm paranoid, maybe not. I don't want to risk anything.

Taking out my phone, I wipe my face and take a deep, painful breath.

"Hi, Isabella. How're you?"

"Hi, Al. Are you busy?"

"Just stepped into my apartment. Is everything alright?"

"I—I have something."

He pauses.

"About Newton?"

"Yes," I say. "And it's—Eric—he—left me DVDs. Solid evidence. I checked."

"Where are you?"

"At Edward's."

"Alone?"

"No, Carlisle is upstairs."

"Good. Have you told this about anyone? Anyone at all? Edward? Carlisle?"

"No."

He lets out a breath. "Good. Have you called the Police?"

"Just about to," I reply.

"Give me half an hour. I'll take you to Kirkland PD."

"Thank you, Al." I rub my face. "Uh, maybe it's too much to ask, but could you take me downtown later in the evening? I'm sure Edward would take me, too, but I'm not sure if he's home by then."

"I probably will. What's this about?"

"The news."

"You want the media to cover this? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's Eric's last wish. It's the least I can do for him." Ping Pong has come to snuggle and beg for some play time and I scratch his neck. "But I won't show anyone anything before Newton is arrested to make sure he wouldn't escape when he's seen this."

He pauses for so long I start to think he hung up on me.

"Al? Are you there?"

"Yes," he says, pausing. "I'll see you soon."

Half an hour later, when I enter the living room, Carlisle is leaning over some paperwork, frowning and biting the end of his pen. I clear my throat. He looks at my semi-polite attire and blinks.

"Do you need your laptop?"

"No. I'd rather rest my eyes tonight."

"Is it okay if it stays in my room for now? You can use it if you'd like, just please leave the windows that are open, well, open."

He smiles. "I won't need it."

I shift. "I just wanted to make sure you knew I'll be with Marshal Al Stephens this evening. I might arrive home late."

"How late?"

"I have my phone. I'll let you know."

He nods. "Has anything happened? You seem upset."

"No, just nervous. I might have what it takes to put Newton in jail. It's a bit nerve-wracking."

"Oh, wow. That is incredible."

"It is. I wish I could take credit," I reply. "If I'm not home before eleven, can you tell Edward to watch the evening news?"

Confused, he puts down the papers in his hands, opening his mouth, but the doorbell rings and Ping Pong starts barking. "See you later."

I don't know if it's the fact that I'm with a Marshal in a uniform, that I know most of these officers by their face and many by name and that my dad was the previous Chief, or that they really believed me when I told them I'd have something, but I get immediate attention. We're guided into a room where Officers Kell and Parker are waiting for us, but we're also joined by Officer Faith Side, and the new Chief of Police, Arnold Lang-Wells. He offers a smile and asks about dad. Everyone sits.

I fish a memory card out of my pocket and slide it across the table.

Curious, Officer Thomas Kell slides the memory stick in and turns the laptop towards all of us.

He opens the file. While looking at it on my own was terrifying, imagine sitting in a roomful of Police Officers, watching Newton & Co. get sexual pleasure out of raping gangly minors. Eyes boggle, chairs shift, faces pale. I'm not looking at the screen, but I can hear it. What feels like a second later, everyone's up. Orders are being shouted. Officers picking up guns, rushing to the door, preparing cars and shouting for others to hurry. Two cars pull away as the Officer heading for the third one, a short man with wide shoulders, stops to look at us. I hold on to Al's arm as we stand in the middle of chaos.

"We'll follow you," Al says. He nods, and they take off. I'm a bit baffled. It's not that I thought they'd just sit around when I showed them this, but I've lived with the knowledge that he's capable of it for so long it's like an out of body experience to see these officers act so quickly. I've lived with nobody noticing for so long.

"Are you alright?" Al asks as we take off. It's getting dark. "You look unusually pale."

"Just a bit dizzy," I reply, taking a deep breath. "Overwhelmed."

"We don't have to see this. I can take you—downtown, you said? I just thought you'd want to make sure he gets arrested. To find peace."

"No, you're right," I answer, taking off my hat as I sigh. "Is he a juvenile defendant?"

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen."

"No," he replies. "Then he isn't."

"But what if—what if the only crimes he can be proven guilty of were committed when he was a minor?"

"I—" He hesitates. "Honestly? I'm not sure."

"How many years can you get for a felony as serious as this one? A lifetime? Can they give him a death penalty?"

"No, no death penalty. That only applies to murders."

"Gee, so it's okay to ruin people's lives when all you cause is permanent damage. That's a lovely system to have. Can they make exceptions?"

He hesitates, and while I'm sure he's annoyed by my questioning, he shows no signs of it. "I doubt."

"What if he pleads insanity?"

"A plea of insanity requires proof, Isabella. He needs evidence of being in a state when he was unaware of the nature of his actions. It's more difficult to get than films would have you believe."

"What happens if he manages to do it?"

"He'd go to an institution until he's judged to be of sound mind. After that, he'd have to return to have his criminal action in court. It's highly unlikely."

I breathe in through my nose, and let it out in a whoosh, very, very slowly, trying to calm down. I close my eyes, taking another breath.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being a curious little bugger."

"You have every right to be. Ask away."

As soon as he assures me it's okay for me to do so (but doesn't really look like it), I have no further questions. Soon, we pull up behind two police cruisers, with another one pulling up on the other side of the road. It seems Officers Kell and Parker have just knocked on his door, because they're waiting, hands on their handgun holsters in a way that's inherently police-y and very intimidating. My dad does it, too.

Al scrolls his window down.

The door flies open, with Michael Newton grinning on the other side, talking to a phone; clearly waiting for someone or he wouldn't have been so careless. His grin disappears with comic speed. With ashen-hued face, he looks at the Officers and the cruisers behind them. His disconnects his call, gulps, and makes an attempt to smile.

"Is there a problem, Officers?"

"You are under arrest, Mr. Newton."

He blinks. I don't know what I expect. Explosions, shooting, helicopters and car chases. Reality is a lot simpler. Officer Kell steps up, cuffs his hands, and starts dragging the baffled-looking fucker into his car. Newton looks around, desperate, like he's waiting to wake up.

"I didn't do it," he says, wide-eyed. "I didn't do it. Whatever it is, it's a misunderstanding. I haven't done anything."

John Newton shows his pale face on the door, hands crossed in front of him and mouth agape.

"What is going on, Officers?"

Neighbors open doors, look around, sit on their porches.

"You didn't read me my Miranda—!"

Officer Parker shuts the door. Both Officers leave and another cruiser follows to accompany them. Officer Faith Side walks up to the porch, and a silent argument ensues. In the end, John Newton scoffs, shaking his head, dials a number and shuts the door in her face. She drives off. Neighbors wander but eventually go home, and the sounds and smells of a spring night reach us. Al scrolls up the window. I watch John Newton holding a phone as he paces back and forth in his living room with a female figure standing on his right, but we turn the corner and I lose sight of them.

"Well, that was uneventful."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought he'd attempt to escape. Not be home. Pretend not to be home. Punch the Officer. Scream or cry or curl up in a ball."

"It's for the better."

"He was right, though. The Officer didn't read him the Miranda rights."

"It's for custodial interrogations. He'll hear them later when being interrogated. If no interrogation is necessary, no Miranda rights are necessary."

"Damn. Films suck."

He laughs.

I feel lighter, like I could breathe, like I could paint butterflies with donkey's ears and fly over Australia with a cupid on my shoulder. Is it really possible that this is the end? That he's gone? Can they identify his companions? Will he turn them in for a more lenient sentence? Will he deny everything?

"I think you're right."

"I think you're right about me being right."

"This needs to be seen. What you showed us, I understand why you'd want to give it to the press. Did you try to count how many different—minors—he raped?"

"Seven documented. Eight if you include Eric."

"How do you think it's possible it hasn't come out by now?"

"Eric asked me the same thing, just before he—did what he did. Honestly, I think Newton is good at picking his victims. In a twisted sort of way, Newton chose his own murderer. Except Newton survived. I'm only guessing, but he seemed to have a recurrent pattern of choosing victims who he assumed to be fragile physically—and mentally. Always ganglier and younger, always kids who are probably used to being put down. Someone too inward to talk, someone exactly like Eric. He chose him _because_ of the way he was, and that's exactly the same reason Eric turned against him. He had a breaking point Newton didn't foresee."

"And the other victims?"

"My middle school was in another district. You'll have to talk to Redmond PD."

"You went to middle school in Redmond?"

"Why do you think Newton is some sort of a semi-God in North Cedar High? Sure, nobody did anything to him in middle school but there were rumors. Of course there were. I think someone even reported him, but there was no evidence, and the victim had been known to lie and nobody believed her. This high school gave him the chance to start over without rumors, so to speak. Same reason I got to start over. Different people. Nobody knew."

"You did."

"Unfortunately."

We spend an hour at King Broadcasting Company, a semi-glass building on Dexter Avenue, trying to find the right people and explaining the nature of the material I had. When they finally understand who I am and what I have, hell breaks loose. I get offered a live interview on K5 News and an insane amount of money. Al has some urgent matters at home, so I take a cab, send Edward a text message and talk to Dereck Norman on the phone. I spend two hours talking to Officers Kell and Parker at Kirkland PD. How long I've had this material, who I got it from, if I knew about this before, if I could help them identify other victims, if he'd done this to me, if I'd written a report. A long, daunting conversation. No doubt necessary.

The Police Department is buzzing with terrified surprise. Redmond PD and Bellevue PD are contacted. Every rape and sexual assault report in the area made in the last five years will be re-investigated.

It turns out Newton has been reported twice by the same person but no charges were filed for lack of evidence. (Victim in question had done community service for commit robbery at the age of fifteen.)

When I get home and close the front door behind me, I am starving. I put my coat away and sit in the dark foyer to support my back. Sighing, I rest my palms on my forehead and run fingers through my hair. I'm exhausted. Relieved beyond belief, but drained. Making decisions, figuring out the right thing to do, talking. I've worn myself out.

Muffled voices reach me. Angry voices. Steps come upstairs, and without noticing my presence in the dark, Edward, Esme and Carlisle walk into the lit kitchen. They're in the middle of an argument.

"—this shit like we're a saintly little family living in perfect harmony. You don't give a fucking cookie for doing what's right. Code of morality, what a joke. You do what's right _because it's right_, not because you expect a cookie for it. Don't raise her otherwise."

"We only want what's best for—"

"But you don't know! You don't know this is best for her! You continue with this fucking façade like we're a real life Potemkin village. Acting all saintly when she's around while you have so much shit to work through. Can you just—stop. Stop this shit."

"Don't talk to your mother like that!"

"Do you know how much she looks up to you? She does. She thinks you've got an impeccable marriage and little Stepford habits because that's what you show her. Do you know what her brother told me last week? She keeps her mom in such high regard that Bella _still_ doesn't know she cheated on Charlie. Got pregnant with another man. Seven fucking years of pink glasses. Because that's how she sees things. That's how she copes. And now _you_ hide _your_ shit like she couldn't handle seeing you imperfect. Do you even realize? Do you know how much breathing room you've given me since she's around? Do you know how much you suffocate me when she isn't? _Jesus_."

"We've only done what's best for you."

"You don't! How do you know what's best for me? How can you? Have you ever asked me what _I_ want to do after high school? What if I never go to college, hm? What if I don't want to? What if want to work as a cashier for the rest of my life? Will you disown me?"

"Be reasonable. You've always—"

"Stop. Just—stop. Did you know I can tell if Bella is home or not by the way you treat me? By what you say and how you act? And I don't even have to see her shoes or ask. It's like living with two bipolar people. I'm so done with your shit."

I stop at the kitchen doorway. Edward is leaning against the fridge, head lowered, tearing at his hair and clenching his jaw. Esme is holding her head in her hands, crying. Carlisle is panting, red-faced, as he tightens his grip around the backrest and presses his lips together.

"You aren't so saintly yourself."

"I never pretended to be! I never did. Not with you, not with Bella. But _you_ are, and it's infuriating. You _suffocated_ me when she was at the hospital. Give me some fucking room to _breathe_. _Jesus_ Christ."

He raises his eyes, passionate and resentful, ready to continue, but his lips part and face pales as his eyes land on me.

"Bella," he whispers.

"I, just—There's a special report on Channel 5 in a few minutes. If you're interested." Edward keeps staring at me, mouth parted. Carlisle and Esme refuse to make eye contact. "I'll ask Emmett to stay with me tonight if that's okay."

I give Edward a meaningless, tight little smile and back out of the kitchen. Seconds later, he wraps his arms around me, holds my back against his chest and breathes down my neck.

"How much did you hear?" Like his breathing, his heartbeat is fast, chest heaving as he pants. His touch is gentle but desperate. I disentangle his arms from around me, turn around, and offer a sad smile.

"I'm a naïve little girl living in her naïve little world, huh."

He runs a hand thought his hair, biting his lower lip as he lets out a slow, ragged breath. "Fuck." He raises his hand to cup my neck, but I step out of his reach. Hurt, he lowers his arms.

"I'm fine. I just need to digest this. I'm not—I'm not angry with you. I just need to talk to my brother."

"I didn't mean to imply—"

"Stop it, okay? It's—let's talk about this later. I need time to process life. I'm slow like that."

He presses his lips together, takes a careful step closer, and eyes my mouth. I lower my head when he leans in, and he ends up kissing my forehead. He lingers, sniffs my hair, touches my chin with his thumb.

"I'm sorry."

His voice is torn.

So maybe I am my own life's Esme. Completely in denial about the true nature of the people around me. I see everyone like they're happy pink unicorns with their happy pink unicorn thoughts and happy pink unicorn actions. I'm so desperate to see everyone's best that that's all I see. Some people have selective hearing—I have selective perception. That's kind of fucked up.

I turn on the TV as Edward sits on the other side of the couch. He's wary of my (lack of) reaction. I can tell he's itching to scoot over and wrap me in his arms or do something equally touchy-feely. He doesn't, of course.

I'm just about to dial Emmett when he calls me and promises to be here after the news.

I don't think I realized the magnitude of what I did before seeing it on TV, watching Ross McArthur explain why tonight's news were special and what a shock it's been to receive this exclusive footage. For at least half an hour, clips are shown, clips of Eric being bullied, of sexual assaults, of me. I don't watch, I listen. The Chief of Police, Arnold Lang-Wells is interviewed. He talks about Newton's arrest, re-investigating sexual assaults, mentions my involvement. He's shaken.

When the Chief leaves, the News Anchors are joined by a child psychologist, Maria Cortez. She discusses these events in the light of Eric's actions, how this connection could help us explain why these things happen, yada-yada. I have mixed feelings about it. I'm glad it's noticed, I just don't think it should take a fucker like Newton and a school shooting to come to the conclusion that things happen for a reason.

I get up just in time to hear the doorbell ring.

"Bella." Edward is gaping at the screen before tearing his eyes away and standing up. He's pale as he motions at the TV. "This is—_this_ is what you were doing today?"

"Yes."

"You've got to be kidding. Why didn't you let me help you?"

I shrug, but it doesn't feel right; words are unsaid and problems ignored.

"Can we speak about this later?"

"Why would you do this on your own? Do you know how dangerous that is right now? I would've helped you."

"I wasn't alone. I took a cab. Marshal Stephens helped me. Later I took a cab again."

"You didn't even _mention_."

"I didn't think it was all that important."

"_Jesus_," he says, tearing at his hair. He takes a step closer. "You find a way to get Newton arrested and you don't think it's _all_ _that_ _important_. How can I trust you—and not worry if you do things like this alone?"

"I'm not _asking_ you to worry."

"You _matter_ _to_ _me_. Of course I worry."

"Well, you shouldn't," I explain, not raising my voice even though it's clear we're having an argument. "I don't need you to babysit me."

"Fuck, I'm not asking to keep tabs on you every waking moment! I'm asking you to _trust_ _me_."

"Well, trust me then! But I was fine before you and I'll be fine when you're gone, okay?!"

With a face ashen with hurt, Edward staggers backwards and slumps when he hits the couch. He rubs his face, takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. His voice is hollow.

"I see."

"Fuck—Edward. I didn't mean—"

But Edward isn't listening. He gets up, nods at Emmett—who's watching us on the stairs, amused—and closes the door to his room.

"Just when I thought I'd learnt to fly, I have my wings chopped off," I tell Emmett as he moves to hug me. He's grinning, proud, and I hold on to soak in his emotions.

"He'll get used to your ways."

"Do you think it was irresponsible of me to do this on my own?"

"Maybe a bit. Not the doing-it-on-your-own part, but the part where you didn't tell us what you were up to. Not that I'm surprised. So why aren't we celebrating? Carlisle opened the door for me and looked at me like he'd seen the ghost. I don't get it. We should be popping champagne right now."

I offer a weak smile. "It's pretty great Newton got arrested, isn't it?"

"Pretty great?" he repeats, shoving my shoulder. "Fucking awesome."

I smile. My back aches, and I know I either have to walk or sit. "Can you stay the night? I want to talk to you."

"Already thought you might," he replies, throwing his sports bag in my room. "Let's go for a run, aye? For old times' sake."

"Emmett." I take a tiny step toward him, motioning at myself. "Rotten bananas. I'm flattered but I'm kind of incapacitated."

"Ah, shit. I forgot."

"We could walk, though, if you have the patience to walk next to a snail."

I knock and slip into Edward's room. He's lying diagonally on his bed, palms under his head, staring at the ceiling with a book open on his chest. He glances at me, tight-lipped, and sighs.

"I just, er—Emmett and I are going for a walk. So you'd know."

He nods, averting his eyes, but before I can back out of his room, he mutters, "Can we talk—tomorrow?"

"I'd like that," I reply, and a frail but hopeful smile is shared.

If it weren't for the argument I overheard, the chances of Edward's parents letting us out (voluntarily) would be slim to none. But when I interrupt their urgent-sounding, hushed conversation to let them know we're heading out like it's the most natural thing to stroll in the park at midnight, they awkwardly—without meeting my eyes—ask us to be safe. Emmett wraps Ping Pong's leash around his wrist, I lock the door and take hold of his forearm. It's a crisp, starry night.

"How've you been, Emmett?"

We've come a long way within the last half a year. Maybe we get along because we no longer live together, maybe we're less afraid to be touchy-feely because of the Cullens' influence, but maybe—just maybe—we're both getting older.

"Busy," my brother replies, sighing and glancing at me like he's been waiting for a chance to vent.

"Football?"

"And, you know." He shrugs. "Life. Got into all the schools I applied to."

"That's a sign you should've aimed higher."

"Maybe."

"So whatcha gonna do?"

"Bad boys, bad boys, watcha gonna do, watcha gonna do when they come for you."

I huff a laugh. "Yeah."

"I—don't know."

"No preference?"

"Not really. Seattle is good 'cause I'd be home, you know? I could keep an eye out for you."

"Stop that shit. I don't need a guardian angel any more than you want to be one."

"Judging by the current events?"

"Oh, please. I just singlehandedly caused Newton's arrest. I'm fucking badass."

He laughs.

"So, okay. New York?"

"It's kind of out there, you know, and I like that. Seems to offer lots of freedom."

"So you could get wasted every weekend. I can see the appeal. And the one in England?"

"Warwick. Probably a bit more intense."

"And what offers you the opportunities you want to have?"

"I—don't know."

It's odd to see him so indecisive, but I don't push. We sit on a bench in nearby subdivision to rest my back, pick up Wally's droppings (I have a very warm pocket, oh yes) and as I'm starving, we head to a Burger King about five blocks away.

"So, I found out something rather interesting today."

"What?"

"Well, the members of my family who are alive are fucking hypocrites, for one."

"Wait, what?"

"Emmett, were you ever going to tell me why mom and dad divorced?"

He eyes me, hesitating.

"Were you?"

"Edward told you."

"It doesn't matter. When were you going to tell me? When I'm fifty? When I'm telling my grandchildren beautiful fairy tales about how amazing my mom was? When?"

"I never thought I'd have to."

"I'm so fucking pissed at you! Do you have any idea how much courage I had to gather to tell you the shit Newton did? How guilty you made me feel for not telling you? How could you be all, oh, Bella, why didn't you tell us, why didn't you trust us, how could you keep this from us—meanwhile you're doing the _same_ _fucking_ _thing_ for _longer_. I'm so fucking pissed!"

"It wasn't like that," he says, cringing. "We didn't keep it from you."

"But you did! Same fucking thing, man. That's like me having the counterargument of never keeping Newton or the bullying shit from you because it never came up. It doesn't matter it never came up! Because I _did_ keep it from you. I did. At least I admit it. You knew of my ignorance and you still never cared to enlighten me. Why? Am I really so fucking fragile?"

"No," he replies. "It's wasn't on purpose."

"So tell me. I think I can take it."

He grimaces. If it weren't for my back, I'd cross my arms, growl and stand in front of him until I get answers. I can't. I clutch onto his sleeve as we walk with tiny little steps and watch a cab pass us.

"It was my fault."

"What was? That they divorced? Oh, come on. Don't give me that martyrdom shit."

He continues to grimace. "I think I was ten. I found mom's pregnancy test, didn't know what it was, took it to dad, thought I'd found the thermometer lying around. He was reading the paper. I put it on the table, proud and shit for doing the right thing for once. He blinked at it, went rigid, pale like fucking snow, clenched his jaw slowly and methodically like he's about to cry, so I ask if mom is sick, but he's frozen. He scares me, that fatal, heartbroken look in his eyes, and I scream bloody murder and run to mom, crying and asking if she's going to die. She can't understand why I'm crying, so she steps into the kitchen and stops at the doorway. Eyes focus on the pregnancy test, on dad, and that one single look they share turns me mute. Like someone turns the fucking volume down. Mom crouches, talks to me in that gentle, sweet way that immediately lets you know shit's about to go down and they don't want you in the middle of it. And it did. A lot of shit went down."

"Who was it? How long had it been going on?"

"I don't know. I was just a kid."

"Is that why dad got custody over us?"

"Probably made it easier."

"What happened to the baby?"

"She had an abortion, I think. Dad was so in love with her, he was ready to raise the kid, even when it wasn't his. He was fucking heartbroken when things ended the way they did. Had a conversation with me, kind of knew I wouldn't understand shit, all I knew was that I'd shown him that thermometer and dad and mom could never look at each other again. When he told me it wasn't my fault, I was convinced he'd never have to assure me if it wasn't—so it was. I thought it was. For _years_."

"Holy fucking shit, you're taking over my spot with Dr. Hunter."

Emmett laughs, but it's an unsure, broken kind of laugh.

"Where was I? I remember things being awry, but just generally."

"I think you were sort of—kept out. I didn't understand much, but that was the one thing I knew. Dad didn't want you to know, neither did mom, and so I never said anything. It helps that you—you're kind of selective about the things you notice. I don't know if I'd say naïve—just very, very selective. Even early on. You focus on sunshine and butterflies. Made us laugh a lot."

"How did things end up in court?"

"Ah, I don't know. All I remember is that dad was suddenly living and breathing lawyer jargon. Determined, focused, detailed. Always studying a stack of papers in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. He wanted us. Badly. He did everything to get us. I'm not sure, but I think it was the day before the final decision in court when I couldn't sleep and went to the kitchen to eat. Dad was there, reading. He lifted me in his lap, asked if I wanted to stay with him. I said yes."

"He never asked me."

"I know. I think he was afraid of your answer. But he talked to me for a long time, it felt like hours but I'm sure it wasn't. So, at one point, he points at a picture of us on the fridge, asks if I want you here, too, and I nod. He says he needs help, he needs help raising you because he's afraid he doesn't know how to raise a girl. I tell him something stupid, like putting you in a dress shouldn't be too difficult, he laughs. Gets all serious, and asks me to watch over you if he gets me. He sounds so serious it scares me, the way he's not sure if he gets us both, so I promise him to take care of you."

He falls silent. I find breathing to be a bit difficult because I'm so touched by Emmett's nightly adventures with dad.

"Neither of us did a very good job, did we?"

I squeeze his hand. Maybe I'm tired, or a bit cold, or my back aches, but I feel the sting of tears and wipe my nose with the back of my sleeve. Nasty habit.

"You did."

He does the same, wiping his runny nose with the back of his sleeve. I don't comment.

We reach Burger King, take orders, sit in the corner and wait. Other than a lonely farmer gulping a cheese burger, we're the only customers. I send a text message to both Edward and his dad.

"You mentioned I'm selective about the things I notice."

"Yeah."

"So, you've read my diary. What parts have I sugar-coated?"

"It's not that you sugar-coat. You're pretty precise."

"Then what?"

"Nothing specific. It's just the way you see things, or choose to see them; the way you see people and their intentions. It's like you think everyone's inherently good."

"Aren't they?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"What's wrong with seeing the best in everyone?"

"Well, nothing, except shit might be thrown your way from unexpected directions."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just—I don't want to piss you off, but it's a bit naïve."

"Examples. I want examples."

"Well, Laurent frequently got in trouble for not telling his grandpa he took his car."

"Hardly a crime, Emmett."

"No offense, but Tanya is a bitch."

"No, she isn't."

"She is. She just knows how to suck up to you."

"Now you're just making shit up. She has no reason to suck up to me."

"She so does. You're the glue that keeps your group of friends together, and she wants to be able to communicate with the jocks as casually as you do."

"You are so full of horseshit right now."

"Alright," he says, leaning against the backrest. "Name one guy in your group of friends who's not a jock."

"Tyler."

"He has a knee injury. Doesn't count."

"Ben."

"Used to play football. Doesn't count."

"Well."

"Well? You've infiltrated the fucking jock table and you haven't even noticed."

"I haven't infiltrated anything! I just happened to communicate with them in the ninth grade."

"Same fucking thing. Do you know why they took you in?"

"Fuck, Emmett, if it's something horrible, please shut up right now. I'm serious. I don't want to know."

"It isn't."

"Okay."

"It's because you're like a wall when it comes to people's personal shit. You _never_ know the gossip that's going around."

"Gee, so now I'm ignorant on top of wearing pink glasses. This just keeps getting better and better."

"You never write their shit in your diary, either. Like when Tyler knocked up Lauren a few months ago. Not a single mention."

"That's none of my fucking business, Emmett."

"Or when Jessica got wasted and posted a naked video of herself that she took down the next day."

"None of my fucking business, Emmett."

"See? Even when you know the shit, you choose not to pay attention."

"High school is hard enough as it is. Of course we're going to make mistakes and act shitty sometimes. Who am I to judge them?"

"See."

"What?"

"You select."

"If you tell me I've been popular all along and blah-de-fuckin'-duh, I'm cutting your balls off."

"So maybe not. But you're more talked about than you realize."

"No, thank you. You know, I prefer my own version with the giant pink glasses and giant pink ignorance."

"You asked for it."

"Wish I hadn't."

We finish our burgers in relative silence, untie Ping Pong's leash, and walk further away from Edward's home.

"So will I ever know who your lucky lady is?"

He shakes his head.

"Why? Is it too sacred and romantic? Aw!"

He huffs. "More like a giant fucking mess."

"You can vent if you want. You know you can trust me."

"I know," he repeats but doesn't continue.

You know what they say? That there are two sides to every story. But I don't think that's true. There are as many sides to a story as there are people involved. So maybe I wear pink glasses. Can you imagine how I'd see the world if I were depressed? If I always had been? Maybe I'd see everyone's flaws before their traits. Maybe that's all I'd see. Maybe I would've seen Edward's parents' marriage and immediately thought they're playing a game of pretending to be perfect and brushing their own problems under the carpet without addressing them. Maybe I would've suspected all along my mother must've done something awry for my dad to get custody over us so quickly.

But I didn't. I didn't. Maybe I didn't want to, maybe I couldn't, maybe it's both. Because I do want to see people's best. I do want to give them a chance.

We keep walking through parks and subdivisions that are lit. Occasionally we stop to sit as I have to rest my back. I think we're at it for hours, talking, laughing, expressing our doubts and fears, discussing dad's return.

It's 03:47 when I unlock the front door. The foyer is lit. It's quiet.

Emmett helps me downstairs. Edward is sitting on the couch with his chin resting on his chest, holding a book in his lap. Because of his colorful screensaver, his face and T-shirt glow. He's asleep.

"Take my room," I whisper. Emmett looks at me, mock-aghast, like the sheer idea of letting me be in the same room with Edward at this hour is ludicrous, but he rolls his eyes, waves and leaves. I sit next to Edward, shut his laptop, take his book away and snuggle close.

"Tomatoes are having sex on your shoulder," I whisper in his ear. "Green and blue, doggy style." I kiss his jaw. He stirs and rubs his neck before blinking at me.

"What did you just say?" he asks, voice groggy and low. "I thought I heard—"

"Tomatoes having sex, yes," I confirm, getting up. "C'mon, let's get you to bed."

"What's the time?"

"Four AM."

He motions at his room. "Are you gonna—"

"If you don't mind. Emmett's in mine."

When I enter Edward's room, he's wearing his grey pajama bottoms, no shirt, and an adorable, sleepy smile. Knowing I need help getting changed, he gently removes my sweatshirt and unties my elastic corset. He wraps his fingers around the edge of my T-shirt, lifts it over my shoulders and hesitates. I'm in a sports bra. With his large, warm hands, he strokes the sides of my waist, locks eyes with me in the dim light, and pulls me into a kiss. I stroke his collarbone as I respond, and he pulls me closer, running his hands up and down my back. Our kiss tastes like toothpaste. I gently bite his lower lip before pulling away.

Without looking away from my face, he helps me into my pajama T-shirt and elastic corset. I know that he'd want to look, that he'd help me out of my sports bra without looking, but I'm not comfortable with that degree of intimacy yet, and he knows it. He places a sweet little kiss on my neck, or more like sucks on it, and we find warmth under the covers. He lies on his side. I lie on mine, resting my head on his arm.

"I don't know how good this idea is," he says. I reach for a spare pillow and put it between my knees.

"Why?"

Edward, who followed my movements with his eyes, frowns. "What'd you do that for?"

"You know, pillow porn," I reply. "Lots of pillow porn in my room lately."

His eyes widen. "You—what?"

"It's for my back, Edward," I reply, chuckling. "Duh. Now why is this not a good idea? Because you snuggle?"

He nods. "I'll probably end up crushing you by the morning."

"I'm strong. I can handle it."

"You do know that's the only reason I didn't—come to you?"

"You haven't cum to me yet? Well, gee, guess I'm the only one interested in the masturbating business then."

Edward snorts a laugh and wraps his fingers around my wrist to kiss my knuckles. He's grinning. "You're adorable."

"And very offended you haven't cum to me yet."

"You have no idea." My hair moves as he lets out a sharp breath. "What I was trying to say is, I didn't want to crush and hurt you. That's why I've kept away."

"I figured as much. But don't worry. I'm ready to scream bloody murder if you so much as kiss my forehead." I place a kiss on his shoulder, let my tongue touch it, and give him a cheeky grin. He growls and leans in for a hungry kiss.

"You're dangerous."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet. I'll make sure to rub myself all over your crotch in the morning."

"Bella," he warns. I laugh. We haven't slept next to each other for three weeks, so in the dim light of his room, we touch and kiss and stare at each other in silence. Nothing too intimate. He seems elated to have me in his arms, and in spite of the rather innocent nature of our touch, I am no less enthusiastic.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Can you explain what I heard before?"

His sigh warms my face.

"Please?"

"Did I offend you?"

"You mean the pink glasses thing? No."

"But I hurt you."

"I'm fine."

"You told me to always tell you when you hurt me. It needs to work in reverse, too."

"I agree. But I'm not. I mean, I was at first, but I talked to Emmett, and he—I'm not happy with what he told me, but what he said explains a lot. I'm more hurt that your parents would feel the need to pretend to be something they're not in front of me. Why?"

"I don't know. I think they're desperate to fit into some twisted fantasy of how a perfect family works."

"You were right, though. I thought that what you had, your parents and the way they show affection, I thought that's perfect."

"I'm not accusing them of being bad parents. I just think they're misguided. They wanted to have so many kids but only ended up with one, so I'm their single opportunity to realize their fantasies. If I turn out right, they'll think they've done everything right, and if I don't, the opposite applies. It's impossible not to feel pressured."

"But you're already wonderful."

His lips tug into a shy but happy smile, and he nuzzles my hair. "I'm glad you think so."

"Do you really feel suffocated?"

"Yes."

"But—okay, I get it, I've only seen a side they've shown me, but it's so hard to believe. They care so much. That can't be an act."

"Oh, it's not. They do. You can suffocate by caring, too, or love, and that's what they do. Where I am, who I'm with, what my goals are, if what I'm doing supports what I want to be doing in the future, am I sure about my extra-curriculars, college, am I using my time as efficiently as possible. They want someone like this in college and not like that and someone with these credits and not those and the more I have the better—college, college, college. It's like the fucking Mount Doom looming in the distance."

"Huh."

"What?"

"I don't feel that way at all. I feel like it's an adventure, like a land of opportunities waiting for me to step on the stage and leap through it. So many people to meet and places to see and experiences to have."

"Sounds just like you," he says. "Would you be disappointed if I never went to college?"

"Your life, Edward. None of my business to be disappointed."

"It is, though, 'cause I'm asking you. What if I became a firefighter?"

"The world would gain one hot firefighter."

He snuggles so close I can feel his breath on my nose, tucks hair behind my ear and locks eyes with me. I see the hesitation and earnestness of his worry. If I didn't already realize how suppressed he's feeling under his parents' watchful eye, I certainly would now.

"Do you really believe that?"

And I know, I'm not answering a question about him becoming a firefighter.

"I do."

"What if I become a plumber?"

"If that's what makes you happy, go for it."

"Jesus, what did your dad do to raise you into this enormously tolerant girl?"

"We ate lots of cheese."

He laughs.

"I want to do something tangible. Help someone. See results. I would die as an academic."

"Nobody's asking you to become one."

"We should have this conversation in a year when my parents finally realize that I might seriously consider not attending college at all."

"Is it really that bad?"

"You don't know what my parents can be like, Bella."

"They won't disown you."

"You don't know what they can be like," he repeats, presses his lips in a thin line and touches my lips with his thumb. I smile so that his thumb lands against my teeth, and bite it. Edward's chest shakes as he chuckles.

"Do you really think that I only choose to notice certain things because that's the way I cope?"

"I'm not sure how to answer without hurting you."

"Honesty always works."

"Yes."

"How do you think I could take off my pink glasses?"

"I'm not sure you can."

"Ouch."

"I didn't mean that. You just—your initial assumption that everyone's good, I don't think you can change that without changing the way you cope. I don't think you should."

"What if I try? I could try. I can assume everyone's rotten on the inside and the world's a giant dumping ground for our selfish intentions."

Edward's snort is followed by muffled laughter when he shakes by my side.

"Don't laugh! I can!"

"What's the use?"

"I'll cease being a naïve little girl and see the world as rotten as it probably is."

"Please don't," he says. "The world's filled with cynics. We need people like you in it, too."

"Blind and naïve and gullible? At your service."

He presses a chaste kiss on my lips. "Don't."

"Alright," I answer, stifling a yawn. "But what I said earlier, that I'll be fine when you're gone, that hurt you."

"Mhmm."

I draw a pattern on his palm. "Why?"

"Because—you already think this isn't going to work out."

"No, I just don't want to assume too much."

"It's like you're waiting for me to make a wrong move so you could move on to the next guy."

I snort with my neigh-like laughter. "That's right. You're just another notch in my bedpost, you know that."

He waits until I finish laughing and asks, "Do you really think that? That we're temporary?"

"Gee, this conversation got awfully serious."

"Do you really?"

"I don't think anything. I guess I just, I'm so desperate not to be that clingy, needy girl who prepares weddings before the first date that I do the opposite. Because I'm not that girl, Edward. As pink as my glasses are, I know that shit happens, and I want to live in the real world. I want to be able to patch myself up after us."

"So basically, you're afraid of giving me all of you because of what I could do with the power I'd have over you."

I rub his collar bone like I'm spreading paint with my fingers. "You'd destroy me," I admit, quietly, all signs of sarcasm gone. He pushes me on my back, leans on his elbows so that our chests are pressed together, and starts rubbing my cheek with his, tenderly, like it's an itch he can't scratch any other way than by rubbing his face against mine. His breath is warm and jaw scruffy.

"You smell like toothpaste," I say. Edward hides his face in my neck, chuckling quietly. Pressing his lips against my neck turns into kissing, warm and desperate and looking for assurance, from both of us. I smile against his cheek as he pants against my ear.

"Self-preservation is what I do," I mutter. "It will take a while for me to turn it off but I'm—I'm trying."

I feel his nod.

"Do couples always argue and hurt each other as much as we do?"

Pulling back a bit, he locks eyes with me, and a pleased, teasing smile spreads across his face. He's trying to stifle it, but it doesn't work, so he ends up grinning against my nose when he rests his forehead against mine.

"Couples, huh."

"I will cut off your balls if you cause anguish for something as silly and simple as my word choice."

"No anguish necessary, I assure you," he replies, laughing silently. Strands of hair fall against his forehead when he pulls back and hovers, silently observing my face with confidence I only see when he's with other people. He's lean, long limbs and eyelashes that should belong to a calf, and just as suddenly as I see him as a sexy, grown man, I wonder if it's just my pink glasses. Maybe he's an ordinary guy, maybe nobody at school thinks of him as special as I'm sure he is, maybe it's because I love him so much that I see him the way I do. But I don't care. Because, freakishly tall or not, misunderstandings or not, he is kind of perfect. For me.

Maybe I shouldn't use so many maybes all the time. Maybe.

His grin widens as he watches me observe his face, and I wonder how I never see him so filled with so much confidence and awe when he leans in to kiss me.

"Go out with me," he whispers.

"Damn it!"

"Pardon?"

"You just ruined next Thursday. Don't blame me if you only get a compost container and a plastic rabbit for your birthday."

I only hear his sharp breath and his chest quiver as he holds himself against me and laughs.

"Is that a yes?"

"Duh."

He lowers himself to kiss me but continues to laugh. I take another pillow, adjust it behind my lower back and settle against his chest. My stomach growls. I'm exhausted. I feel Edward's hands in my hair, and I think he's falling asleep, too, but instead, his chest starts to vibrate with laughter.

"Tomatoes having sex," he says, kissing the top of my hair. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

It couldn't be more than a couple of hours later when I wake up, groggy, with a more painful back than I recall ever having. Edward is asleep by my side. I blink and notice Emmett swaying like a sleepwalker as he walks further into Edward's room, annoyed.

"It's dad," he huffs, throws my phone on the blanket and disappears. It's dark outside. I attempt to get out from Edward's arms, but he's holding on too tight and my back is too painful. I quit trying and lower my voice.

"Dad?" I can hear his sharp breaths on the other end of the line, but when he doesn't say anything, I try again. "Dad?"

For at least half a minute, nothing changes, but then dad clears his throat and mutters, "Bella."

"Did anything happen?"

"No—I just—I saw the footage," he says, taking another sharp breath. I might be wrong, but it sounds like he's (trying to suppress) crying, and I don't know how to console him.

"Are you alright?"

"That's my line," he says, letting out a breath against the mike, almost like he's blowing air in my ear.

"I'm excellent, though I've been better, you?"

"Fucking proud of you, Bella," he says, loud and clear and with so much satisfaction it makes me smile.

"My pleasure."

"Are you alright, though? This is going to gain momentum today."

"I'll be fine."

"Good," he says, sighing. "Good. I just wanted to hear your voice and make sure you're okay. I'll speak to you later on Skype. Love you."

"Love you too, dad."

Emmett and Edward are still asleep when I publish the four DVDs on YouTube at noon. I post a link on Facebook, bring Carlisle's Mac upstairs (he's in the garage, where I've never seen him, and I might be wrong, but it feels like he's avoiding me), and eat breakfast. My back and legs are sore and tender, a sort of dull, spreading ache probably caused by lactic acid. It's strange, a familiar burn in an unfamiliar place. As if I exercised too much yesterday. I probably did, though, considering how much I walked and how unused to it I am.

When Emmett and Edward wake up, they watch the news with me. It's all over the place. Not just local channels, but national, too. I see interviews with Chief Lang-Wells, Officers Parker and Kell, and some with Officers from Redmond PD whom I've never seen before. Two other guys were identified and arrested closer to midnight, and I think I recognize them from my middle school. It's surreal. How much it's covered, how seriously it's taken, the shock and surprise and terror, the way something as colossal and provable as this could've been hidden for such a long time because of the nature of the kids Newton chose as victims. I was right. He did choose them with care.

I do not know who is responsible, but the video with Eric comes out—edited, of course—and that receives massive coverage. Morning paper, talk shows, news, blogs. I'm content to see the viewpoint change as they reconsider what Eric did. Some even go so far as to defend him, but mostly, his story finds compassion. It's a tragedy.

I managed to help identify four victims yesterday, one of whom has since committed suicide and one who has moved to Wisconsin. No victims have so far agreed to comment publicly, and no wonder. I hope they're relieved to see this happen, wherever they might be in their lives right now. Maybe they find peace. I hope they do.

It's a bit funny watching News Anchors discuss my involvement. Suddenly everyone has an opinion, some guess that sexual abuse had to have happened to me, too, others think Eric and I had to have been romantically involved, but even those who don't still discuss the bejesus out of my friendship with him. I feel like it happened to another person.

I explain what I was up to yesterday and show Emmett and Edward the four DVDs on YouTube (which has been shared and commented on Facebook so much I can't follow the discussion) and while neither covers their eyes like I did, they grimace frequently. Emmett still seems to feel guilty that I managed to keep the magnitude of bullying from him. When it's over (I don't look, I just listen), Edward hugs me like he wants to crawl underneath my skin, and Emmett ruffles my hair with a sad sort of anger on his face. I've never seen him wear the expression.

My phone is ringing so often I don't disconnect it from the charger. Angela, Laurent, Peter; nearly everyone I know is making sure I'm aware of what's happening (hard not to be aware when you've intentionally caused something like this.) Ralph Yorkie gives me a breathless-sounding call and Dereck Norman pays me a visit to do a brief interview.

What a day, honestly. When it's six PM and Edward is packing his bag to head off to the football match against Campbell High School, I'm lying on his bed, with one pillow tucked under my head, one behind my lower back and one under my knees. I'm like a giant pillow holder with more Tylenol than blood in my bloodstream.

When Edward is done packing, he falls against the pillows beside me and groans. It's a soft sound, a bit whiny and very uncharacteristic of his I-can-do-everything-without-getting-tired attitude.

"I don't like leaving you here alone."

"Newton's been caught, Edward. I'll be fine. I'll dance ballet with Ping Pong and force him to watch _The Intouchables_."

"Make sure to have him downstairs."

"I will."

"My parents are idiots. To avoid you in order to avoid dealing with shit? Idiots."

"They're working. They'll come around."

He sighs, rolls himself next to me, leans closer so that our noses are touching and looks at me. We both laugh.

"I had the best night's sleep tonight."

"So did my T-shirt."

He grins. "And you?"

"I don't know, there was this giant squeezing me like I'm his personal stress ball."

Edward laughs.

"You can sleep in my bed if you want. I should be home around midnight."

"Ah, you're out of luck. I hear your girlfriend is not as easy as she seems."

His eyes are alight with affection and humor.

"Don't. I know you want to comment but just—don't."

His smile is so wide his mouth opens, so I lift my hand and press his lips between my thumb and forefinger. Unfortunately, while I've made him look like a duck, his smile doesn't get any smaller. Instead of removing my fingers with his hands, he leans so close that I have to let go and presses a kiss on my lips.

"I have to go or I'll be late," he says, grinning. He blows air on my forehead so that strands of hair tickle my skin, and pulls back slightly. "I'll make sure to buy some Greek yoghurt for my girlfriend."

He throws the black strap of his bag over his shoulder and runs for the door.

"Smug bastard!"

His laughter echoes in the parlor.

It's more painful than any of the previous times, but I spend an hour and a half doing physical therapy, Ping Pong style. Whenever he waggles his tail, I do (the slowest) sit-ups (known to mankind), when he licks me, I do exercises for my back, when he starts jumping, I ride my invisible bicycle on my back, and when he finally looks at me with his puppy dog eyes like I'm a giant idiot, I lie on my stomach and show him my tongue.

I'm almost too slow to reach my phone before it stops ringing, but I'm not, so I breathlessly discover Rosalie calling me.

"Oh, God. Is that really you?"

"Hi, Bella."

"Do you know how many times I've tried to catch you on Skype for the past few weeks?"

"I can imagine."

"How are you? What have you been up to? Tell me."

"Not nearly as much as you, clearly," she replies, and I can almost hear the shy smile I'm sure she's wearing. "I don't have much time tonight, but I saw the news and wanted to—thank you. For what you did. I don't know how you did it, but you—" She takes a breath, and mutters, "I had… no idea, Bella. I didn't know you've—seen this. And you—I'm so grateful."

"Thank you," I mutter, taking a breath of my own. I don't know the magic of people so sincere you can't expect them to be real, but Rosalie is one of them, and they somehow—get to you. My mirror neurons or whatever the hell they are are through the roof with her.

"I might have the chance to visit you, too, on Edward's birthday, but don't tell him that, okay?"

"That's incredible! I'll be silent as the grave."

She sniffs, but it doesn't sound like crying, more like sighing or shaky breaths. "I have—so much I want to talk to you about."

"Can we Skype tomorrow?"

"In the evening. But I'd prefer tête-à-tête."

"You and Edward and your love for French, honestly. I'll Google that."

"I mean, in person. Eye to eye." She chuckles. "I'll contact you soon with details, okay?"

"Of course. It's amazing to finally hear from you. Can't wait to catch up."

I finally watch _Intouchables_ (2011), which I love but should've forced Edward to watch because it's in French. For the rest of the evening, I blast Emmett's soundtrack music through Edward's speakers, rest my back because it really does sting a lot today, and finish my slide-show for Edward's birthday. Because I survived Edward's snuggling, I dare to fall asleep with Ping Pong by my side.

I don't know how long I've slept when I hear a scratch, or perhaps the sound of my drapes rustling. The house is dim and quiet so the faint noise makes me stir. I feel a breeze, cold and humid, and draw the blanket closer to me. I snuggle back against the pillow just before I realize I have no curtains. Ping Pong is growling in a voice so low I can barely hear it. But I do. I hear him. His growl loudens to a point where he's nearly barking but not quite. It's threatening and angry. He's ready to jump.

Above him stands a figure of a man, towering over my feet. His arm is raised, as if he intends to strike or stab me, but he's frozen. I cannot see his eyes but I feel them fixed on me. He's holding a gun. I swallow, trying desperately to buy time. Ping Pong is growling and ready to jump as I lock eyes with this man in the dim light.

"Are you going to kill me, Mr. Newton? It won't undo what your son did."

He steps closer, and the moment he stops next to my knees, Ping Pong jumps and hooks himself onto his thigh, growling and biting. Mr. Newton groans before he halts and lowers the gun. The deafening shot echoes as Ping Pong whimpers, twitches, and lies still on my feet. Warm liquid seeps through the blanket and a sob is caught in my throat.

He points his gun at me, and I have no means to stop him. Nothing. I could try to kick it, but I can't bend and he'd just pick it up again. I stare at him, listening to my heartbeat.

"I don't regret letting the media know," I say. Daring, reckless words that I wouldn't voice if it mattered. But it doesn't. I am no match against an armed, healthy man. He tilts his head on one side, shifting his gun, and I feel goose bumps, perhaps from shock or adrenaline. Then, I see the faintest of nods, and shut my eyes, hoping it wouldn't hurt too much. Gunshot.

Drops of liquid land on my face and arm, weight lands on my legs. Mr. Newton lies half on top of me, gun still pointing at his mouth and blood pouring on my chest. It's hard to breathe. I shift and push his body away. His nose breaks with a crack as he hits the floor.


	21. Surface of the Sun

"It is said, Percy, that civilised man seeks out good and intelligent company, so that through learned discourse he may rise above the savage and closer to God."  
"Yes, I've heard that."  
"Personally, however, I like to start the day with a total dickhead to remind me I'm best!"

— _Blackadder II, Beer_

: :

I believe it was Kate Winslet, who, once in an interview, admitted to having been concerned about putting on a bra when the house she was in caught fire. I found it amusing if peculiar that such a thought would occur when your life is in danger. Because how hard is it, really, to have a reaction adequate to the situation? To be quick? To do the right thing?

Dad taught me to be that person, the one who keeps a clear head, the one who acts responsibly and quickly. (Imagine that, Emmett.) Unfortunately, however—and I don't think anyone will like the truth—you can only control your reaction so much before shock or panic takes over. As much as I admire the people capable of an adequate reaction and as desperate as I am to be the hero in every situation, there is only so much I can control.

When faced with a gruesome situation, don't we all imagine ourselves to be capable of staying level headed?

We do, don't we. I did. But you'll never really know how you'll react before the situation, even if you've learned and practiced the best way to act; in case of an emergency on an airplane, in case of fire, in case of drowning, in case of choking on a piece of meat. You know what to do, don't you, Emmett. And you never think of yourself as the one to scream or cry or freeze, incapable of coherent action. You never do. Because you want to be a hero, at least in your mind, and until you've been in that situation that defines your limits, you'll continue to believe you'd be the hero. Until you are not.

Edward tells me that when he arrived home at 01:30 AM, all the lights were on: kitchen, living room, hallways. That means that at one point or another, I had to have walked through the entire house, switching the lights on. I can't recall this. I vaguely remember seeing Edward's pale face through the bathroom's open door as I sit in my blood-soaked pajamas under a freezing shower.

Edward runs to me, presses a warm palm against my cheek, neck, chest. He checks my pulse. I think I motion at my room because he runs out only to reappear even paler with a phone in his hands, talking quietly and urgently before disconnecting. He turns off the shower. I observe my pruney, numb fingers, gaze up at Edward, stand, and press myself against the wall. I start the shower and step under the freezing water. I stare at him as he talks, soothing words and tender voice, arms open for me, coaxing me to get out. He later told me I fought him, but I can't remember.

I do remember him stepping into the freezing shower fully clothed, getting soaked.

He tells me that by the time the police and ambulance arrived, he'd managed to calm me down, just enough for me to agree to turn off the shower. I can't remember. I remember clinging to him, wet clothes and all, soaking in his warmth. He keeps whispering against my ear, and even though it's distant and incomprehensible, I bathe in his voice. Ambulance arrives. Police does, too. Edward wraps me in a towel before I talk to both—or so Edward says—but I don't make much sense. I can't remember. For some reason, they keep telling me that nobody blames me, that nothing will happen to me because it was clearly self-defense.

I don't know what they're talking about.

Edward tells me that after examining me, the paramedics want to take me to the hospital. I, apparently, refuse—again, I can't remember—and after coaxing for ten minutes with no results, they agree to let me stay with the promise that Edward won't leave my side until Carlisle arrives home. I sit there, staring at them as Edward talks to the paramedics (he knows one of them) and the police. I don't understand much.

After they leave, Edward wraps me in another towel, makes me lie on his bed and sits beside me. Stroking my hair, he takes a deep breath and takes out his phone.

"Come home," he says, quietly, not looking at me. "Well, I don't give a fuck. Bella shot John Newton." He pauses. "Yeah, that got your attention—how should I know? Just come here." Another pause. "I know. I've been volunteering almost as long as you've been working. I know. Shivers, vomiting, cold sweat. She's—in shock. I know. I _know_. Just—come here."

It's like he's speaking into a long, metal pipe that ends somewhere in another room. I'm starting to comprehend his words, but the volume plays tricks on me, it goes up and down and up again, emphasizing awkward syllables and making him sound strange. He disconnects and leans over me, running his hands through my hair. I find myself looking into his worried eyes before he lies down beside me and wraps both of his arms around the towel I'm in. I feel his weight on my side as he strokes my waist and breathes on my neck.

"Please, please be alright."

I feel my teeth shattering. He's warm, his legs and neck and ears. He's so warm.

"I—I just want to scrub it off."

He later told me that that's the first time (since he arrived home) I actually sound like myself.

Edward (still in wet clothes) guides me to the bathroom, unwraps the towels from around me and steps into the shower. He tells me it's lukewarm. It feels hot. He unties my elastic corset, wraps his fingers around the edge of my blood-soaked T-shirt, pulls it over my head, and helps me out of my shorts. I struggle with my bra, but Edward takes it off, and so I stand in front of him in my worn Sponge Bob boy shorts and nothing else. He eyes my face as I pull his own T-shirt over his head. He lets me. I unbutton his soaked jeans and he steps out of them. It's only when I let my fingers linger under the edge of his boxer briefs, only a little, that he wraps his around my wrists. I stroke his skin.

Not taking eyes off my face, he takes a step closer, runs his fingers over my cheek and tilts my head back. Water falls on my forehead, splashing on his forearms as we stand there, mouths agape, eyeing each other's faces. I run my palm across his stomach and chest. He's sporty and lean with long, almost gangly limbs. Darkish hair forms a line in the middle of his stomach, but his chest is almost hair-free. He shuts his eyes, sighing as I stroke and rub his skin. He keeps his arms to himself as I discover his body, innocent as I am, running my hands across his skin, his hairy forearms and protruding Adam's apple. He's warm. He's so warm.

I stroke his love handles and press my lips against his chest. I kiss the rough skin of his jaw and linger, sucking a little. His chest grumbles, but he does not move. It's only when I run my palms up and down his sides and kiss him full on the mouth, desperate and urgent, that he opens his eyes. He gives me a look filled with concern and wonder and truth, green irises under wide eyebrows, and rests his forehead against mine.

"Please," I say, raising myself on my tiptoes, kissing his neck.

His arms stay limp on his side when he leans closer and breathes on my ear. "Discover me," he whispers, his voice low. "Discover me."

In my confused haze, I figure this is guy-talk for, you know, and desperate to prove him I'm worthy, I slip my hand lower on his stomach, and manage to only graze under the material of his boxer briefs when his fingers lock around my wrist. I look up, and his jaw is clenched. Eyes filled with pain.

"No," he says. "Not like that. Not now." He guides my hands upwards. "Make yourself comfortable with me. Like you did before." He presses a warm, wet kiss on my lips, lingers just a bit, and closes his eyes—again, standing in front of me with his hands on his sides, letting me continue my silly discovery of the male physique. I know he's offering a distraction. I take it.

I find so much affection in his offer I find my loofah, pour body wash on it, and start covering him in foam. I rub him, shoulders, chest, stomach and legs, as he stands in front of me, arms on his sides but fists clenched. I step closer, so close our chests are touching, and continue washing his back with my arms wrapped around him. It's almost like I'm hugging him but not quite, and even as I'd noticed I had an effect on him, I didn't expect him to lift me up in his arms and wrap my legs around him as he supports my back with his hands.

"Lord help me."

He grinds against me (groans) and starts sucking on my neck. My back aches. A dull but distinguished ache. I run my hands over his biceps, and, new to this intensity, I try not to feel inadequate as I lower myself against him. It feels new and intimate. I turn his face to press my lips against his, and it's desperate, wet, filled with nipping each other's lips and touching tongues. It's not ideal, the way Edward's foot keeps slipping and the cold wall against my back, but his desire (like my own) is so new for me that I, for the first time, imagine what it would be like to take the next step. With Edward. He'd take care of me. I feel like I need this proximity, and not just how good it feels—because boy, does it ever—but the intimacy. The trust.

Our kisses grow more intense, and with Edward supporting my back and butt, (slippery) fingers digging into my skin, we start to reach an awkward rhythm. His skin is wet, he smells like soap, and he lets out a groan when my lips trail a pattern toward his neck. He pulls my lips to his, humming, biting my upper lip.

"Edward? Bella?"

Edward pants against my nose, and slowly, very slowly places me on the ground but does not let go of me. He hides his face in my neck.

"Give us a moment," he says.

"Where are you?"

"Just give us a moment!"

As I start to shiver, Edward guides me under the warm shower. He envelops me into a hug, a wet, warm hug, and as my brain is switched on, I realize I'm pressed against him, non-existent breasts and all, in my old, soaked underwear, with an aching back. He nuzzles my ear, squeezing me.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, panting. "I am—so sorry."

"You killed my loofah," I say, not entirely sure why he's apologizing as I make him lift his foot. I squeeze body wash on my loofah, and with my heart in my throat, with quivering hands I hold it out to him, hoping he'll recognize the gesture. But he stares at it, hesitating. Immediately, I lower my hand, press my lips in a line and avoid his eyes. I blink. I gulp.

"It's—okay," I hear myself say, fragile, tiny voice directed at my loofah. Suddenly, I feel naked in front of him; raw, unpolished and so very naïve. I let go of his forearm and grip my elbow to cover myself up. My loofah falls. I step back.

"Bella," he says, eyes flickering between the turquoise foam ball and my eyes.

"It's okay."

"Bella," he repeats, voice torn and step hesitant.

"It's fucking okay, okay?! I'm fine!"

I manage to step out of the shower just before two strong arms wrap around me, pulling me back against him. His warm hands stroke either side of my waist as he presses my back against his chest, resting his jaw next to my neck. "Shh."

"You don't want to and that's okay. You've seen better, anyway. It's fine."

"Bella—"

"I said it's fine! I'm fine. You said I wear pink glasses, and you were right. But I—I don't want you to think I'm ugly and underdeveloped and shit, and now you do. Why else would you not want to—it was silly, anyway. Forget it."

"That's not—"

"Stop it. It's nothing short of what I know about life."

My voice is breathy and so hollow that I start to cry even listening to it, the weakness it contains, yet my face is already wet, so if it weren't for my uneven breaths, you couldn't tell I'm crying. But Edward can. He steps back and pulls me with him, back under the warm shower. He holds me tight against him and starts to sway, back and forth. "Shh."

"Edward? Bella? Are you alright?"

"Fine, dad," Edward says, only slightly raising his voice. "Give us a moment."

"You—you don't want to, Edward." My voice breaks. "And that's fine. Just—can you just, for once, pretend I'm like them? That you—that you don't mind I'm—that I'm—"

I swallow.

"That you're what?" he asks gently. "What?"

"Stop being so nice to me!"

He squeezes my sides, stroking my skin with his thumb as I hold my arms in front of my chest, hiding his view. I can feel his breath on my skin. "Shh."

"I hate you."

"Do you now?"

"Yeh–es."

Nuzzling my neck, he kisses it, and his touch is so feather-like it tickles. "That's too bad," he whispers, squeezing me. "Because I love you." He lifts the loofah, steps around me, close enough to rest his elbows on my shoulders, and makes eye contact. For an entire minute, he brushes his lips against my forehead as if he intends to speak but cannot. I slide my palms back and forth across his back, feeling the warmth and exhilaration of being close to Edward like this. My breathing calms.

"Don't assume a cause for my reaction that most suits with your perception of yourself."

With that, he pours shampoo (his, not mine) on his palm, takes his time washing my hair and scrubs me with my loofah, all gentle hands covered in foam and eyes barely leaving mine. His touch lingers on my ribs as he asks permission, and when I nod, he leans into a kiss as he rubs slow circles my chest. I shiver, and Edward's eyes smile, twinkling, like he's happy to have elicited the reaction. Yet he holds my gaze.

"I'll get you some dry clothes."

When he returns, his eyes fix on the top of the drier as he places clothes on it, and when I notice his red ears, I'm sure he caught a glimpse of my naked butt. He clears his throat. "Do you want me to help you?"

"Yes."

I dry myself. Edward stands back turned to me as I step into my boy shorts. I hold a tube in front of his face before I turn my back on him. He massages the cold content on my scar (it's tender), wraps his arm around me, and breathes a kiss on my neck as he covers the scar on my upper stomach.

I turn and envelop him into an all-consuming, bone-crushing hug. There's so much I want to tell him, but I don't trust myself to do it now. Everything is too intense.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. He squeezes me back, and I hide my face against his neck and chest. He places his jaw on top of my head.

"Do you always wear panties with cartoon characters?"

"Unless it's a picture of you."

His chest shakes. "I found nothing but pantyhose in your closet, so I brought you my pajama pants."

I hum.

"Are you alright?"

"You're here." I pull back and attempt a smile. "That's enough."

His eyes smile. I lower my eyes and draw a pattern on his damp chest. I want to tell him he's amazing, I want to apologize for my behavior, I want to tell him he's the best thing that's ever happened to me, that I'm sorry for assuming shit, that he's incredible and I love him.

"Edward, I—"

"It's okay," he says, kissing my forehead. "Not tonight. We've got time."

Drowning in Edward's grey pajama pants and a T-shirt that's a bit too wide but not too long (I ditched my elastic corset because it's soaking wet), I step into the parlor. Carlisle is resting his elbows on his knees, talking quietly to Esme who has her legs pulled up on the couch as she leans against him. She jumps when I clear my throat.

I wrap my arms around my stomach after I realize they're shaking. I don't feel well.

Carlisle asks me to lie on Edward's bed as he asks questions and checks over me, but all I can do is observe him, trying to figure out why he is the way he is. I watch him, his lean build and fair hair, his professional demeanor. He doesn't mention what I heard on Friday and I don't bring it up.

He ends a call to a fellow doctor before sitting beside me.

"Do you want Charlie to be here?"

I take a deep breath when I smooth over the T-shirt covering my stomach, and my first impulse is selfish.

"Yes."

He nods. "I'll call him."

"No—I want to. In the morning. I don't want to freak him out."

"Alright. I'll call Froula Alarm first thing in the morning. They've got a lot to answer to. Wake us if you need anything."

He stands up, hesitates, and I think I see a flash of guilt in his eyes. It seems he's about to say something, but he simply offers a good night before leaving. I crawl under Edward's covers, and not long after, Edward switches off the lights and joins me. He slides so close he's able to intertwine our legs and presses me tightly against him in a horizontal hug. I lift an arm to touch his and leave the other one on the pillow. I draw patterns on his jaw.

"Are you cold?" he whispers.

"A bit."

He pulls the blanket so that it's snug against me.

"I didn't mean it."

"I know."

I press my lips against his and whisper, "I love you."

His eyes soften. "I know."

I leave my face so close to his I expect him to get uncomfortable, but he doesn't move.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep? I can get you some sleeping pills."

"I'll try. No pills," I reply, and leave him with a whisper of a kiss. "Good night, Edward."

He smiles under my lips, and snuggles even closer. "Sweet dreams, my love."

"Such cheese."

"I try."

Wee hours into the morning, I wake up dizzy and disorientated. I'm barely able to tear myself from Edward's arms before I crawl in the bathroom and vomit. I spend my time staring at the shower curtain before retching again. Later, when I start to feel humane, I brush my teeth and slide down on the cold wall, bending my legs as I hide my head between my knees. I listen to the sounds of an undisturbed house. It's quiet.

I come to when Edward runs his hand through my hair, crouching beside me, looking disarrayed and sleepy. He presses his palm flat against my cheek. It's warm and filled with concern.

"We should get you to the hospital."

"It's just shock or stress or whatever." I attempt a smile. "I'm fine. Your dad is here."

"My dad is too blinded by what others think of him to realize how serious this is," he says. "He's a cardiac surgeon. As skilled as he is at what he does, he's no psychologist. You need professional help."

"I'm fine."

He presses his lips in a thin line. My face crumples as shock or stress or pain or exhaustion, whatever it is, finally finds its way out and my throat closes up. I fight tears.

"Scoot over," Edward says, and sits behind me so that his legs are stretched out on either side of mine, hands on my knees. "Do you feel nauseated?" he asks. I shake my head and he pulls me to rest my back against his chest. My hand shakes as I cover my eyes and crouch.

"Make it stop," I whimper, voice high and unlike me. "Please. Make it stop."

He brushes his lips against my neck, and I wish he'd scream and shout so that I could argue, but he doesn't so I can't. He holds me as I start shaking from crying, silent sobs between sharp, erratic breaths.

"Please," I whisper. "I don't want to do this anymore. It's too—too much. I don't—want this. I can't."

"You can." His breath warms my ear. "You have and you will."

"But I can't. I just want to get off. I want life back to the way it was—before, when I thought I was fine, when I thought I knew my parents or yours or—or when Eric was just my harmless fellow torture-buddy. Or when Mr. Newton—when he—"

"Shh."

My sobs grow silent, and I cry and rub my eyes until there are no more tears left to cry. I can feel Edward's steady heartbeat, but mine is quick. I take a deep, almost even breath.

"I didn't kill him."

"What?"

"I didn't kill him, John Newton. He—he came and—and shot Ping Pong, and then he wanted to—to shoot me, but—but he didn't."

"He shot himself?"

I nod.

"He came here to kill you but shot himself instead?"

"Yes."

"But I thought—"

"No, it was him. You'll see it from the fingerprints if he, I don't know. I never—I couldn't have."

"Jesus Christ."

His exhaled breath tickles my neck.

"Ping Pong," I whisper. "Is he—"

He slides his hands to my toes and up again before intertwining his fingers together, creating a cocoon around me. He squeezes.

"Edward?"

"His heart stopped before the vet made it here."

"No."

"I'm afraid so."

"No."

"Yes."

I suck my lip tightly, painfully, so that I wouldn't cry, but I'm fooling myself; my throat closes up. "Would he have—uh, survived, if I'd—if I'd—"

"No," he says with confidence and speed that fails to fool me. My face scrunches up in a grimace, and, shivering, I take silent, desperate breaths. Edward keeps running his hands up and down my body, squeezing, stroking, sharing his warmth and hiding his face in the crook of my neck. God, Ping Pong, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Ping Pong. You beautiful, protective soul. If I'd only been quicker.

He lets me wail, silently, not saying a word, just sitting there behind me pressed against me. When I've calmed somewhat, I bring his knuckles to my face and kiss them.

"Tell me how to help you," he says, voice pained but rough with sleep I didn't notice before.

"Hold me."

That's exactly what he does when we spend the night sitting on the bathroom floor until he falls asleep, head leaning against mine, limbs wrapped around me. When I turn my head and kiss his nose, he squeezes me, humming. I feel the thump-thump, thump-thump of his heart, the incredible warmth of his body, and think of life.

If we are the sum of our memories and experiences, what has Edward gone through to make him the man he is? What was his childhood like? Does he remember anything before Esme and Carlisle? Does he _let_ himself remember? Did he ever have a rough time at school for being grown-up next to others? Is he so desperate to be everything to everyone out of desire to belong? By pleasing everyone—including his father? And how in the world did he end up caring about me, that crazy girl he asked to sit next to in Biology?

November feels like light years away.

What made him the person he is? What would it be like to feel as much pressure as he seems to feel? Is that why he enjoys my company? Because I expected so little of our friendship? I still fear expecting anything long-term out of our relationship, but somehow, that's the kind of fear that hurts him.

And finally, how in the world am I able to put all this shit behind me?

: :

"You _forgot_ to _lock_ the _door_?!"

Grimacing from back pain, I slide my feet on the floor. With my snail-paced footsteps, I walk to the doorway and lean on it.

"He just _walked_ in here. No signs of breaking in, nothing. He just opened the front door and walked downstairs to kill Bella. You do realize _how _serious this is?"

Edward's face is ashen-hued.

"You forgot the _alarm_. You nearly got her _killed_."

His eyes land on anything but Carlisle. He staggers.

"I would've never expected you to behave so irresponsibly."

Edward opens his mouth, but no words get out. He looks horrified.

"You're grounded," Carlisle says. "Until the end of the school year."

Edward simply blinks at him, slowly. Once the color returns to his face, he lets out a maniac-sounding little laugh. "Yeah, fucking ground me. You're doing me a favor, really. I've heard colleges dig not having extra credits." He takes a step toward Carlisle, and I've never seen him look so dangerous. "And where, may I ask, were you last night?"

"Working."

"As if you've had _any_ night shifts on Saturdays since we moved here. You _hate_ working on Saturday nights."

"There was an accident and I had to—"

"Blah, blah, blah. Prior to said accident, I bet you asked Dr. Harrison to switch shifts. Didn't you."

"You are not—"

"Didn't you!"

"Edward," he warns.

"Fucking hell, dad! You're scared of solving issues with a _seventeen_ _year_ _old_ _girl_. So much so that you'd _ask_ to work a night shift when it's completely unnecessary. You're a fucking coward."

"I provide for this family," he says, tight-lipped.

"Oh? So you want me to contribute? Please hold on while I drop out of high school. There's no way in the fucking world I'd fit a job in with the schedule I have."

"It is your choice—"

"Is it now? Is it really? So you promise not to bitch and moan about every single fucking choice I make about my life? Let me just drop out of everything but studies. Since you wouldn't mind."

"Be reaso—"

"I am not you, dad. I don't _want_ to drink champagne at the golf club and boast about my kids and a new Hummer and pretend to give a shit about someone who bought a new villa. I don't _want_ to keep up pretenses. Word to the wise, dad—nobody actually gives a shit."

Carlisle pauses, staring at Edward. "Is this about Bella?"

"No. You leave Bella out of it."

"You never used to—"

"I said," Edward hisses, stepping closer. "Leave her out of it."

"So if you hate extra-curriculars so much, why are you taking so many?

"To escape _you_! If I need to amputate my leg to stay alive, I will."

Carlisle's lips form a hard, thin line.

"So how do you suppose I should punish you?"

"_Christ_." Edward tears at his hair, eyes pained and jaw clenched as he lowers his head. "Really? You don't think this is gonna eat at me? You don't think that's fucking enough? I forget shit, alright. I forget my wallet at home, I forget textbooks. You know that. Do you _really_ think punishing me for this is gonna change anything? _Fuck_."

"You need to realize that—"

"What's it going to help, dad?! Huh? I'm absent-minded. I always have been. You know that. I know that. And you can change it as much as I can. You can't."

"What do you suppose I do?"

"I don't know! Sue me, ground me, give me community service if you want to have illusions about your power over me. Make me volunteer every day until I graduate. But don't feel obliged. I'll be fucking guilt-ridden regardless."

Displeased, Carlisle stands still, looking up at his son. "You never used to…"

"What? Curse? Have the courage to tell you you're suffocating me? Accept that I'll be just fine if I decide not to go to college? What, dad? _What_?"

"Statistically—"

"Fuck statistics! Do you want to punish me by forcing me to believe I'll be nothing without ten plus years of medical school? Is that it? Why do you so desperately want me to live the life you're living? You love Esme to death, and you're not even fucking _happy_. You explain that to yourself."

Carlisle stares at him for a half a minute before turning to leave. "This conversation is not over."

"Can't wait."

The moment Carlisle is gone, Edward slumps on the couch, looking about as empty as a broken balloon. Quietly, I walk up to him and run my fingers through his hair. He looks up, exhaustion and pain in his eyes, and wordlessly links his fingers with mine. I sit beside him.

"Hey," I say, tilting his chin up. He looks at me. I attempt a smile. "You're a beautiful man, Edward." The edge of his mouth twitches, but only slightly. "And I don't mean just here." I trail a finger across his cheek. "But here." I press my palm flat against his chest.

"Now who's filled with cheese," he says and covers my hand with his. He looks down. "I forgot," he whispers, voice filled with anguish. "I fucking _forgot_."

"So I heard."

"I almost got you _killed_."

"Was he wearing gloves?"

"What?"

"John Newton, was he wearing gloves?"

His tilts his head back to look at me. "I don't think so."

"Maybe—if he didn't even bother putting gloves on before coming here, maybe he was so beside himself he would've shot a window or the lock and come after me even if you'd remembered to lock the door. Maybe he wouldn't have cared about an alarm. Maybe he always intended to shoot himself as well."

"Yes—maybe. But it would've woken _you_. You would've had time to hide, call the police, anything."

"Maybe."

He lets out a breath. "Dad's right. It's my fault."

I straddle him. I pull him close enough to feel his heart beat and run fingers through his damp hair before wrapping my arms around him. The smell of soap lingers on him. His hands roam under my clothes on my back, waist and hips as he strokes, desperate hands seeking assurance, and pulls me closer still, nuzzling my neck. His touch is desperate and yearning, and I squeeze him, feeling his warmth and arousal. I lift myself, just a bit, and Edward tenses underneath me as his body jerks. I raise my eyebrows.

"I can't help it," he says. Somewhat embarrassed, he nuzzles my cheek.

"I'm flattered."

Leaning away, Edward slides both hands in my hair and keeps hair out of my face. His eyes search mine and he kisses my forehead. "I can never forgive myself for what happened."

"Melodramatic much?"

Edward presses his lips in a line.

"Please don't—I don't blame you. He would've found a way. Don't work yourself up over this."

"It's not—"

"Please. I'm too hungry to argue. Seriously, first dad and then Emmett and now you, guilt-tripping to the moon and back. Don't torture yourself."

Once again, he nuzzles my jaw. "You mean the world to me."

"Likewise," I reply, and kiss his cheek. "Now, let's stop nuzzling every inch of my skin and start eating, agreed?"

I can feel his smile as he draws his nose to my ear. "But I like nuzzling. Your skin smells lovely."

"Is that your roundabout way of telling me I smell like you today?"

"Maybe," he replies, and touches my skin with his tongue before pulling back. "I am not complaining."

"Why don't you get it over with and pee on me."

He grins and stands, letting my feet slip on the ground but still holding on to me. "Maybe I will."

"Men are grose."

He laughs but then holds on to me, hugging me, leaning his head on my shoulder as he sighs. "This weekend hasn't turned out very well."

"You don't say."

"How are you feeling today?"

"Hungry."

"Any nausea?"

"Can't tell. Too hungry."

"Come on, let's get you some food."

Carlisle is gone. Esme is in church, or so Edward says, and I call dad to let him know what happened, but he picks up with, "I spoke to Tom. I'm at the airport."

So that's that. It's nine AM. He'll be here in five hours. As far as dad can tell, he's able to stay for a day. I don't question it. I want him here. I also call Emmett, but when he asks how I'm doing and if it's okay to visit me yet, I raise eyebrows at Edward. He, apparently, called both dad and Emmett early in the morning. Not only that, but he ordered Emmett to stay put until he's able to calm me down and make sure I'm alright.

I lean over and kiss Edward's ear. He squeezes my hand.

The pancake doesn't taste right, and next thing I know, I'm vomiting my guts out in the bathroom. My throat burns. After I'm remotely okay, Edward wraps me in layers of clothes and despite my arguing, takes me to the ER. I get a shot, meto-something-or-other, and I'm made to lie there for a few hours. Edward sits there, holding my hand as nurses ask questions. Edward answers most. I answer some, too. I'm prescribed sedatives. I drink water, lots of it.

Nothing seems to have changed: Edward's house hasn't, neither has the weather, so maybe nothing has. Edward stays by my side all day, touching me, letting me sit in his lap, snuggling with me on the couch. I have moments of oppressive clarity as well as confusion as I bathe in his warmth. The TV isn't on, neither is he on his computer as he offers what he needs most: proximity. We don't talk. We simply lie there, wrapped in each other's arms. I don't know how I'll manage without him, honestly.

I'm drowsy with sleep when Edward, still wrapped around me, whispers in my ear and pulls me to sit. He's been so tender and patient with me through the whole day, the way he's let me sleep in his arms and how he's listened when I'm confused. I open my eyes when he runs his fingers through my hair.

Dad and Emmett are standing in front of the staircase, observing us. Edward helps me stand before kissing my forehead. "Call if you need anything," he says. He rests his forehead against mine. "I love you."

"Love you too."

He smiles, shakes dad's hand and heads for his room.

"Son."

Edward turns.

"You're welcome to join us."

He hesitates, looking for cues from me. He must find what he's searching for because he nods at dad. "I'll just grab my phone."

By the look on dad's face, you'd think I'm taking my first steps. He opens his arms for me, sort of embarrassed, and I get a full, two-armed hug. I hold on. "Dad."

My throat tightens. Dad pulls back, holding on to my shoulders, watching my face. "My brave, brave girl," he says, pulling me to another hug. For some reason, two days' worth of emotion hits me as I hide my face in his high-necked cardigan. I press my lips together.

"I killed Ping Pong," I whisper. "I killed him."

Dad, who doesn't have the upbringing, habits or proclivity to be affectionate, simply squeezes me as I take a shaky breath and fight tears.

"I didn't mean to," I rasp. "I'm so sorry, dad. I'm so sorry."

I'm barely aware of being in Edward's pajama pants, but nobody comments as Edward tucks me by his side and we head to a restaurant. They're having a silent conversation that concerns me, but I don't pay attention. I observe them, the way dad casts brief but worried glances at me, the way Emmett doesn't crack a single joke, but mostly the way Edward keeps me by his side, hand around me, kissing my forehead occasionally as they talk. I feel minuscule, physically and mentally, and so ashamed of my shock last night I can't even think about it without biting back tears. Why did I have to get sick? Why do I still not feel normal? Why does seeing my history teacher kill himself affect me so much?

"Honey?" dad asks.

Edward squeezes me.

"I know it's hard but—can you please tell me what you remember of John Newton breaking in? Just as much as you remember."

"I… he was by my feet when I woke up. Ping Pong, uh, Wally, he was growling. He jumped and—and bit his thigh, and Mr. Newton, he shot him, and then he—pointed the gun at me."

"What time was it?"

"I—I don't know."

"That's okay. Continue."

"I, I told him I didn't regret letting the media know. And he—I was convinced he was going to shoot me, but next thing I know, his weight is suffocating me and his blood is pouring on me and—"

Dad and Emmett wait for me to continue, but I can't.

"And then?"

I look at them in alarm. "I—I can't—it's a bit of a blur—I don't know—"

"It's okay," dad says, squeezing my hand for a brief moment. Edward is drawing patterns on my forearm before he intertwines our fingers and kisses my knuckles.

"How long had she been alone before you got there?" dad asks Edward.

"It's hard to tell. David was sure it couldn't have been more than a half an hour later. An hour max."

"David?"

"One of the paramedics."

"What did Tom say?"

I turn to look at Edward, his eyelashes and lips and curly hair, and it's almost like I see him for the first time. I see the boy I met in November, but I also see the man he is, the man who arrived home to a difficult situation and handled it with a firm voice and a delicate hand. A man who knew exactly how to take care of me and did so with such love and care he didn't let go of me even when I let go of him, a man who held me when I sat on the bathroom floor and carried me to his bed.

I watch as he slides a finger along his lower lip, as he licks his lips and shares a few words with Emmett, so confident and sure of himself, just like he is with his father (even if they do happen to disagree). How can this be the same man I met in November? Am I always meant to see a side of him he never lets others see? Like the back of the moon reserved for my eyes only.

He makes eye contact, and I swear he's changed. Maybe he's always had it in him to be the voice of reason in a tight situation. How did we get to this point? What's left of the two scared little kids spending the night in one oh six? What happened to the boy whose eyes lit up when he speaks about being involved in music? It came so naturally to him, taking complete control over the situation and dealing with police and ambulance, and the passion with which he helped me. The same way that, I'm sure, he prevented me from bleeding to death when I got shot. Judging by the way he talks, he's been in tight situations before.

Is this what Carlisle sees? A man with massive potential and unparalleled focus when he has no other choice but to take charge? A man with an innate ability to judge a situation and take immediate action? Even in casual situations, like when he saw Alice corner me and didn't hesitate to let me know how he felt to fix a situation? Or when he knew I needed him when mom died? I imagine Edward as a doctor, taking charge, and somehow, the image is not only attractive but seems so fit him. Is this really what Carlisle sees?

If yes, does that give him the right to pressure him to a point where Edward feels suffocated? Maybe Edward would discover a love for medicine or psychology if Carlisle stopped pressuring him. What if all it takes is for Carlisle to leave Edward alone for him to discover his talent and passion at this?

I catch dad watching me as I observe Edward; he offers a nod. Dad smiles with his eyes.

"So you arrived home to—what, exactly?" he asks Edward.

"The lights were on, all of them. The floor was covered in blood stains. I called out her name and ran downstairs to see Bella sitting under a cold shower, fully clothed, holding a toothbrush. But the look on her face, Jesus." Edward squeezes my hand. "She'd thrown up, too, and she kept apologizing. I called the ambulance and managed to calm her down, but—she's still shaken. Took her to the hospital this morning because she wouldn't stop throwing up."

I shift as worried eyes land on me. I'm scared to realize I don't want to crack a joke. I don't want this to change me, to change who I am, and I'm scared that all of it, knowing I wear pink glasses, feeling how ashamed I am of not reacting adequately, realizing I have problems of self-worth and letting myself close to Edward, I'm scared that everything will change. I'm scared that once it does, nobody I know will feel the same to me, and nobody will accept me. I'm fucking terrified.

"She should start seeing Dr. Hunter at least twice a week," Edward says.

"What does Carlisle think?"

"This is beyond him."

Dad appraises Edward, like an equal, like someone he trusts to know and do what's best for me. "Do you think that will help?"

"I do. She's been through too much. It's too much for her. It's too much for anyone."

I feel eyes on me.

"Do it. Whatever you think she needs, do it."

Edward and dad eye each other before Edward nods. He kisses the top of my head.

"You said she got Newton arrested all by herself," dad says, and their conversation continues as I observe them, three of the most important people in my life discussing my health and well-being. Dad, who traveled two thousand miles for a day to make sure I'm okay. Emmett, who is trying to make the decision that might take him across the globe from us, and Edward, my best friend, struggling to find his way in a world where too many arrows have been put there before him, who might set down his own arrows beside them but cannot because the arrows he feels are already there are suffocating him.

"Thank you." Their conversation halts. "Thank you," I repeat, making eye contact with each of them. So alike my father, I struggle to feel okay showing emotions. "It's just—you guys mean a lot to me." I offer a smile, lips pursed, and avoid their eyes because I'm so overwhelmed my own brim over. Dad takes my hand and squeezes it, making eye contact but not saying anything. Embarrassed, I pull my legs underneath me, hold Edward's hand close to my chest and watch them continue to talk and eat. I have an incredible family.

It is late at night when I'm snuggled up next to Edward (he's breathing in my ear) that I hear dad, occupying my carpet-less room, pick up a call and walk upstairs. It sounds urgent. I gather pillows for Edward to hug while I'm away. I follow dad.

He has already disconnected the call when I make it upstairs. Leaning on the wall, I walk closer as he stares at me in the darkness. When I sit beside him, dad takes both of my hands in his and holds them against his forehead.

"The son of a bitch hanged himself."


	22. Welcome to the Real World, Neo

"Get the door, Baldrick."  
(Baldrick enters, carrying a door.)  
"Baldrick, I would advise you to make the explanation you are about to give _phenomenally_ good."  
"You said, 'Get the door.'"  
"Not good enough. You're fired."  
"But my lord, I've been in your family since 1532!"  
"So has syphilis! Now get out!"

— _Blackadder II, Beer_

: :

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Do you blame me?"

"What?"

"Do you blame me?"

"For what?"

"If I'd managed to stop Eric that day in the cafeteria, none of this—none of it—would've happened."

"You don't know that. The extent of what the fucker did, it would've come out eventually."

"But—dad, you taught me to behave in situations like this one. You know you did. Are you disappointed that when it came down to it, I—I couldn't?"

"Absolutely not," he says, uncharacteristically blunt, turning to look at me as he lowers his hands, but never letting go of mine.

"You're sure?"

"No question."

"But—but, I remember you thinking that psychology is like tree-hugging. I realize how much of a stretch it must've been for you to keep this opinion to yourself."

"Whatever helps you, I'll learn to believe in."

"You're sure? You don't think this is just time thrown in the wind?"

He sighs. "For me not to trust Edward's opinion at this point in time… I can't. That boy? You might just have to keep him, Bella."

For a few quiet moments, we listen to the foyer clock tick away time.

"Carlisle is worried about him."

"What did he tell you?"

"He's trying to figure out what he's doing wrong."

"What do you think?"

"I—I'm trying not to interfere. It's not easy for a parent to hear about the mistakes they've made."

"Dad…"

"It's true. Sometimes it's easier to turn a blind eye. I think, at one point, maybe Edward wanted to follow Carlisle's footsteps, because kids, they do that a lot, but they often change their minds as they grow up. Maybe Carlisle never learned to let go."

I'm starting to think Edward feels like he _owes_ it to his parents for taking him in and raising him.

"He feels suffocated."

"I know," dad replies. "He told me—those exact words."

"I wish I could help him."

Dad squeezes my hands. "You already have."

"No, I haven't."

"You have. He told me so himself." Dad leans against the backrest and lets go of my hands to rub his face. "I heard Carlisle and Esme bought you a piano."

"They _what_?"

"Quiet."

"Sorry." I lower my voice. "Why? When? I haven't seen a piano."

"It's in the living room. Have you been there recently?"

"No."

Dad stands. I hold on to his forearm as we walk to the living room, turn on a single, dim light, and look at an upright piano covered by a white cloth at the back of the room. With dad's help, I walk to it. Dad sits on the edge of the couch as I sit in front of the piano and lift the cloth. In yellow writing, it reads, C. BECHSTEIN. I slide my fingers across the fallboard, but I don't lift it.

"But—why?"

"Didn't Edward get into a fight with his parents on Friday?"

"How do you know that?"

"He told me." He motions at the piano. "And this—this is the reason."

"He—ah."

"What?"

"It makes sense, what he told them about giving gifts. This is how he thinks his parents make up for their shortcomings. They do love him, dad. They care so much. Edward is just too mature for their manner of showing it."

Looking at his lap, dad sighs. In a small voice, he says, "I could never afford something like this."

"Dad, no." I stand in front of him and squeeze his hand. "I'm not asking you to."

"You'd deserve it."

"Shut up."

"You would."

"Shut up, dad."

I motion for him to stand. He lifts his eyebrows but proceeds to comply. I pull him into a hug, the one he's embarrassed of. Dad doesn't say it upright, but he doesn't have to. I don't think Edward's parents realize how much you can hurt a person by doing this, how much they've made dad question his choices in life. It seems like a touchy subject to dad, someone who has, apparently, spent insane amounts to pay for the most expensive health insurance, who has insured himself in a way that would leave me and Emmett time to gather ourselves should anything happen to him. I hope not, God. He's going to live to be a hundred and fifteen.

"I don't fault you for the things you've done for us as much as you fault yourself for the things you haven't. I love you, dad. I can't wait for you to return. I miss you."

He squeezes me. "You miss your old man?"

"So much, dad."

He pulls back, embarrassed-looking, wipes hair out of my forehead and tucks me by his side as we lean on an armrest and face the piano.

"What happens now?"

"First, we need to get you some help. I think we should take you away from school for a while. You could study from home. What do you think?"

"I think it's Easter Holiday. I mean, Edward told me yesterday—I'd forgotten about simple things like that."

"I only have two weeks left."

"I remember. Where are we going to go when you're back?"

"I'm going to rent a house. Tom and Al have helped me find a few places."

"Can we go see the houses together?"

"Of course."

He clears his throat, but I beat him to the bunch.

"How could he have committed suicide, dad? Did they not keep an eye on him? I wouldn't have wanted to face a trial, fuck no, but I—it's so unfair. Why should he have had the opportunity to end it all while so many people, so many he abused, have to learn how to live a normal life with the horror and shame he caused? It's so fucking unfair. Why did he do it? Why did he keep doing it? Did his dad just find out on Friday? Where's his mom? Why did he get away with it for so long? Just—just fucking why, dad?"

"I don't know, honey," he says, voice low. I take a few deep breaths and wrap arms around myself.

"And you? Are you okay?"

"Just a bit cold."

Dad takes a thin woolen blanket from the armchair and wraps it around me.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," I reply, eyeing him. He's my height, all dark hair and lighter eyebrows above kind, worried eyes. We've come a long way, he and I, our ways of coping, our level of trust, of being comfortable with affection. What a man he's turned out to be.

"I think—I'll be okay. Eventually."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," I reply. "Although I might have to force you into a couple of philosophical conversations in the middle of the night."

"As long as you're okay."

Dad smiles, squeezes my shoulder, and switches off the light. He helps me downstairs.

I sit on the edge of Edward's bed. He shifts and rubs his eyes in a way that makes me confident he's awake.

"Did anything happen? You okay?"

His voice is rough with sleep.

"I feel remarkably like myself tonight."

He slides his fingers across my knuckles and throws a couple of pillows on the floor before lifting the blanket. I slide beside him. He nuzzles my ear.

"Why do I always wake up hugging pillows?"

"'cause I'm irreplaceable?"

"Good answer. I approve. C'mere."

He intertwines our legs and pulls me so that my head rests on his chest. I listen to his breathing start to even as I draw patterns on his chest. When I'm convinced he's asleep, he asks, "You're sure nothing happened?"

"Nothing of consequence."

He's watching me, I'm sure of it, but he says nothing.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Will you take me to Rape Crisis Center?"

Those warm hands stroking my skin still.

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

I lift myself a bit to kiss him. "Thank you."

"Not needed."

"Why do we always end up talking in the middle of the night?"

"Because you've got enough life going on for the both of us."

It is dad, eventually, who takes me to Harborview Center for Sexual Assault. He borrows Edward's car. I go to Bank of America, too, but before long, we're looking at each other in a parking lot around the corner from Harborview. He keeps fiddling with the car keys.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"You'd have to. We didn't take my walker."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." I sigh. "You can come if you want."

The place is dreadfully ordinary with its yellowish walls and corridor chairs. With dad's help, I inch closer to the receptionist, lean on the counter and clear my throat. A frizzy-haired, middle aged woman looks up.

"How may I help you?"

"I'd like to make a donation."

She smiles. "Of course. Just fill out this paper. How would you like to make it?"

I slip her a check, squeeze dad's arm and ask dad to help me leave.

"Miss? Miss? This is—" The woman comes after me. "You need to fill—"

"I don't care for that."

"You don't want to put down your name?"

"No."

"No?"

"You can write Eric Yorkie. Yeah, put that. My mom had a funny sense of humor. Right, dad?"

Confused, dad stares at me, at the woman holding my check, and the few people who bypass who are unaware of this strange ordeal. After staring at my check for five awkward seconds the woman makes eye contact. Hers widen.

"This is—very generous—"

"It's not fake if you're worried about that." I wave. "It was nice meeting you."

When we're out of the building, dad nearly slips on a puddle covered by ice, but he doesn't sacrifice a single bruise to the gods of frozen puddles. Instead, he puts a mitten-less hand on mine and holds on to me as we walk to the car in silence.

"Where did you get that kind of money?"

He turns on the heater and pulls away from the parking lot.

"I sell heroine when I'm not at school."

Dad looks at me in front of the stop light, and it's not like that look he gives me when he's trying to figure out if I'm telling the truth. No. He's trying to figure out _why_ I'm not telling the truth.

"Five digits."

"Aw, you can count to five, dad! You must be so proud."

"Five digits, Bella."

"I robbed a bank last week. Happy?"

"Bella."

"Fine." I huff. "I sold Esme's diamond earrings."

If dad would be the type of person to roll his eyes, this would be his moment. He doesn't take his eyes off the road when he asks, "Did you sell part of what Renee left you? The business?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"You really want to know?"

"No, I'm just asking to annoy you."

"Hardy har, har."

"Come on then."

I sigh. "I didn't want to take the money. It was Al who convinced me."

"But where did you get it?"

"King Broadcasting Company."

"For the videos?"

"Yes. I can only imagine their joy after they realize the videos are up for free on YouTube."

"What about Eric's parents?"

"I sent his dad an email on Saturday morning. I told him he can have it, but he didn't want any money associated with what happened. Neither do I. So I told him where I wanted to put it. He approved."

Dad eyes me, eyebrows raised. "So you decided to donate it."

"It wasn't mine to have."

He looks out of the window, turns on the radio, and casts a brief glance at me. Misleadingly dismissive-looking yet proud, he says, "I must've done something right."

Dad smiles at me. I return it and turn up the volume.

We go to Kirkland PD to talk to the Chief and Thomas Kell. It turns out the paramedics managed to bring Michael Newton back to life but several minutes of hypoxia damaged his brain and pressure to his neck seriously damaged his trachea. The paramedics performed tracheotomy (whatever that is) before Newton's heart gave out again, this time permanently. His mother hasn't showed up since his arrest.

Upon dad's request, nobody overwhelms me with questions as the current Chief and dad discuss the names Newton named prior to his death. Two of them were arrested on Friday, one on Sunday. A few are on the wanted list.

Esme is already in her coat when we arrive home. Dad changes clothes as I wait by the front door. When he reappears in his cargo pants and sweatshirt, he sets down his briefcase and stares at me, lips pursed in a bittersweet smile. He opens his arms and I step into them.

"Edward is a capable young man," he says with a lowered voice. "Trust him."

"I do."

"Take care of yourself." He pulls back and disarrays my hair. Teasing, he presses my hair against forehead so that the fringe almost reaches my eyelashes. Dad smiles. "You need a haircut."

"I'll shave myself bald when you're gone."

He chuckles, throws the strap of his bag over his shoulder and picks up his back bag. Esme smiles and steps out, dad waves and follows. The click of the front door echoes in my ears before I throw it open.

"Dad!"

I try to run to him, but it hurts. In socks, I step on the wet porch. It's freezing. "Dad!"

He turns and jogs to me. "What's the matter?"

Snow slosh seeps into my socks as I slowly step downstairs. Dad waits as I do, but I can tell he's a bit freaked.

"What's wrong?"

I throw arms around him, squeezing and inhaling.

"I love you," I say. "I love you and I miss you and I need you to take care of yourself for me, okay? Can you do that? If anyone insists you should put yourself in a dangerous situation, tell them to go fuck themselves and come home. Please take care of yourself."

He pulls back to look in my eyes. "What brought this on?"

"You're all we have and you're the best dad ever and I need you alive and healthy. Please take care of yourself."

His face softens. He messes up my hair. "It's just for two weeks. I'll be home before you know it."

"Promise you'll be okay."

Confused, he nods. "I promise."

I'm a bit embarrassed as I let go of him. "Sorry for the dramatic farewell."

He squeezes my shoulder. "Wouldn't be you if it weren't a bit crazy," he says, letting me hold on to his forearm as I step upstairs. He stops in front of the front door. "Listen. I need you to take your sessions with Dr. Hunter seriously. If you want to see someone else, we'll find the money. Focus on getting well. I think you should skip school for a few weeks so you could focus on your health. Let me know at the end of the week if that's what you need."

"Okay."

Dad casts a glance at Esme's car. The windshield wipers are working.

"I also want you to know—I'm immensely proud of you. You're growing into a wonderful woman and it's a wonder to watch it happen. You and Emmett both. Even if I don't tell you all the time, I couldn't be prouder to call you my own."

"Thanks, dad," I reply. "I agree. Emmett growing into a wonderful woman is, indeed, a wonder to watch."

Dad laughs.

"Watch out for each other. I think he's got some girl issues he's not telling me, and maybe you could help him out."

"I'll see what I can do," I reply and pull him into one final hug. "I'm proud of you, too. So proud. I'll see you soon, okay?"

He smiles and hurries downstairs. I wave as the car leaves, close the front door, and sit in the foyer to take off my soaking socks. Barefoot, I walk to the kitchen. The silence feels odd. I pour dog food in Ping Pong's bowl before I halt. It is nothing but a habit for me to fill my dog's bowl the moment I get home, but this time, it turns my stomach. I lean against the counter and take deep breaths. I stare at the little metal bowl that is covered by kibble some of which is scattered around the bowl. It clangs against a cupboard in the hallway when I kick it away from me. A painful jolt runs through my back.

I sit on scattered kibble.

He'll never be here to eat it. He'll never be here to lick my face or bother me when I'm doing physical therapy. He'll never snuggle when I'm sprawled across the parlor carpet, studying or watching a movie. He'll never bark at a stranger when I'm jogging at ungodly hours. He's just—gone. Like smoke in the wind.

I start picking up kibble, one by one, setting them in the empty ceramic bowl where his water should've been. The position strains my back, so I turn on my side, rest head on the cupboard and flick kibbles away from me. It's my fucking fault he's no longer here, mine. Nobody else's.

I try to get up when I hear the front door, but give up after my left leg is covered by pins and needles. I raise my eyes to see Edward stop on the doorway.

"Christ." He leans over me. "What happened?"

I am more conscious this time of the way his palms run over my skin, cheeks, neck. He kneels and caresses my hair. "What happened?"

I take his hand and intertwine our fingers. "Where's Ping Pong?"

Searching my eyes, tenderly, in a low voice, he says, "He's dead."

I realize he's afraid I've forgotten, or I'm still in shock, but I take a breath and kiss his knuckles. "I know," I reply. "Where is his body?"

"In the basement freezer."

"I want to bury him."

"Right now?"

"Right now. I'll dig the hole myself if you don't want to."

"No, I can do it. But right now? Are you sure?"

"Positive."

The world is mocking me, I am sure of it. Why else would the sky be dim and orange in its cloudless charm? But I'm glad Edward's house isn't part of a subdivision. Hand in hand, we walk to the edge of a foresty park where Edward refuses to help me dig. Together we clutch the edges of my blood-soaked sheet weighed down by Ping Pong, and carefully place him in the hole Edward dug. I lean on a tree and watch my Garfield sheet take cover under wet soil. When Edward is done, he steps on its shoulder so that the shovel stands upright. He walks up to me, lips pressed together, and envelops me in his arms.

It's unreal, the occasional breeze, semi-frozen ground and bare trees against the darkening sky. For a moment, we listen to distant sirens and chirping birds.

"You're a brave girl."

"I'm just slow. It takes a while for emotional garbage to sink in. Don't confuse bravery with my snail-paced emotional response."

"I disagree."

"I'm glad you do."

He runs his hands through my hair and pulls away, just slightly. "How are you feeling today?"

"Surreal but better. You?"

"Same."

We head inside. In silence, we take off our coats and grab a bite to eat. In the parlor, Edward pulls me to sit between his legs, wraps arms around me, kisses the nape of my neck and nuzzles my ear. I shiver.

"I missed you today. I'm sorry I couldn't take you."

"It's okay."

"How'd it go?"

"I saved three lives and a kitten."

"Busy day."

"Indeed."

He breathes down my neck as he hesitates.

"Do you think we could make a little cross for Ping Pong?" I ask.

"Of course. Do you want to do it now?"

"No, I—it's weird."

"What's weird?"

"Life."

"What's weird about it?"

"I'm—it's so weird. I feel so much guilt about letting that happen to him. It's terrifying, but at the same time, I'm not even crying. How terrible is that?"

He squeezes me. "Grieve however you feel like. Tears or not."

I turn a bit, just enough to see his jaw. "Edward?"

"Yes?"

I imagine what we'd look like to an outsider, snuggling on a couch, TV and laptop turned off, no music, nothing but us. Nothing but a seventeen year old girl wrapped in her best friends clothes, and nothing but a young man who is far and beyond what you'd expect from a guy his age, even at twenty one. I'm struck by the oddest feeling of not knowing him at all, past, present, or vision of a future.

"Yes?" he repeats. Edward helps me turn around, lifts my legs over his lap, strokes my calf and looks down at me. I brush hair off his forehead.

"I want to get to know you," I tell him. He returns the gesture with my fringe and leans closer. My stomach flutters. Edward's smile is teasing but somehow still shy.

"Are we reaching the same page?"

Despite his comfort in being affectionate, his face is so vulnerable that I pull him into a kiss. I lift myself, slide fingers in his hair and pull him closer. He grins against my mouth before responding, stroking my back, pressing his torso against mine and gently laying me down on the couch. Putting no weight on me, he straddles my hips and leans over me. He's holding the back of my head in his hands, covering my neck with kisses, and even though my back is not that strong, I press him against me. Leaning on his elbows, he draws away and licks his lips. I lick them, too. He laughs. Curly hair is falling on his forehead, and his face is slightly red. He's drawing patterns on my hair with his thumb and searching my eyes, almost like he's desperate to comfort me but at the same time incapable of keeping his hands off of me.

Is this real? Can I tear this moment—that look in his eyes—from my mind and shelve it somewhere precious? I need to have a safe for that look filled with worry and caring and unabashed love. Why me? I don't ask. Instead, I smile, and if I ever had doubts about us, the way he immediately mirrors it would erase them. Thousand fold.

"This is unfair."

"Unfair?" he repeats, puzzled. "How?"

"I want to be on top."

He huffs a chuckle and rests his forehead against mine. "I told you."

"Told me what?"

"You're a natural initiator."

"So full of it, Cullen. If my back were fine, I'd tie you up and have my wicked way with you."

"Oh, so that's how things are going to be when your back is okay again?"

"Mhmm."

His face breaks into a grin.

"Oh, shit."

"Pardon?"

"Remember the tickets you got me for Christmas? _War Horse_ for the 4th of March?"

"I remember."

"I was, ah, going to ask you to go with me."

He trails a pattern on my cheek with his nose. I can feel his smile on my skin.

"Were you now."

"Yes. Strictly as friends, of course."

"How disappointing."

"I know. I would've probably jumped you afterwards, though."

He laughs and lies down beside me, resting his head on his palm. I turn to face him and place my palm flat against his chest. Smiling, Edward strokes my waist, squeezes, slips his hand under my shirt and repeats the motion. It's almost absent-minded, that smile and the way he observes me.

I wonder how much of what we do together he deems important. If Edward were to write an entry into my diary (or his own journal), what would he write about? Even if he wrote about the exact same situations I'm writing about, how different would they be? He's so casual about affection he probably wouldn't even notice a moment like this.

"Would it be okay for you if I spoke to your dad about, you know, the whole doctor thing?"

He pulls back. "You think he'd listen to you?"

"I can try. Would that be okay?"

"Of course," he replies, and brushes his lips over my cheek. "How's your PT going?"

"Nowhere. Chris hasn't been around since Thursday."

"Chris?"

"Yes, super hunky dude, very sleek, hot six-pack owner. He shows me sex positions and wants to go on a date with me."

After a moment of quiet blinking, Edward clears his throat.

"I didn't realize your physical therapist was a guy."

"Why? Are you jealous?"

"Maybe." He nuzzles my ear.

"_Maybe_? Maybe, huh. In that case, you should know he walks around with a permanent boner when we—"

"Bella," Edward semi-growls. I hold eye contact before bursting into chuckles.

"I'm sorry. You're too precious. Chris is short for Christina. She's a she."

Hot air warms my ear when Edward exhales. He throws a leg over mine and squeezes me.

"You evil little girl."

Tuesday takes a turn for better—or for worse—when I have an appointment with Dr. Hunter in the afternoon. Edward drops me off and helps me to the waiting room before heading off to some WWF conference he's helping out with (I've lost track of Edward's extra-curriculars, so I'm not entirely sure). A big man with a limp exits Dr. Hunter's cabinet before I crawl (eh, you know what I mean) in. I shut the door and watch Dr. Hunter lean against the table, holding a clipboard in his lap. His tattooed double-chin seems to have grown.

"Do you only accept patients with a physical disability now?"

"Maybe." He scribbles something down and stands. "Do you need any help?"

"No. Just give me time."

He takes a seat in the armchair and silently observes me as I inch closer to the couch. I let my bag fall on the ground and sit. He's resting elbows on his knees, watching me.

"How've you been?"

"Same old, same old. Saw a friend start a school shooting, took a bullet, put a few guys in jail and failed to prevent a couple of suicides." I hide my hands in my sweatshirt's pockets. "How about you, Jammy? How's life treating you?"

He doesn't smile but leans forward and simply looks at me. I'm not sure if he's trying to imply that it's not my place to reciprocate or that the answer wouldn't hold the same weight. A few seconds pass.

"I'm alright."

"That's good."

"All that's been happening—Is that why you started seeing me?" he asks, and continues to look at me in that jarring, silent way.

"Yup."

"How do you feel?"

"Haven't you read any newspapers recently?"

"Newspapers don't tell your story. I'm asking _you_."

"I feel—I don't know. Confused. Angry. Disappointed. Guilty. All over the place. My emotional response is a bit on the slow side."

"Nothing wrong with that."

I shrug. "I wouldn't know."

"Edward came to talk to me yesterday."

"Right. I forget you guys know each other. So what did he tell you? That I'm a harm to myself and others? That the likelihood of any male committing suicide increases as they come in contact with me? What?"

"He's worried."

I let out a breath and let my shoulders fall. I can't help but feel defensive.

"I know."

"Does he have a reason to be worried?"

"Yes."

He leans against the backrest. "How about we discuss your feelings one by one."

"Will that fix me?"

"Probably not."

"_Can_ you fix me?"

"That is not my goal."

"Then what am I doing here?"

"Because I can help you help yourself."

"That's deep, man. How much time did you spend making that up?"

He looks at me until I grow restless and attempt to raise my legs underneath my body, but I fail. For a quiet moment, we stare at each other. He scratches his double chin. It's scruffy and looks like a soft hedgehog with a balding problem.

"I understand this past month must've been hard on you, but you have to help me help you in order to make progress. I know it must be difficult—"

"Difficult? _Difficult_, really. Did it take you a PhD to figure that out?"

Eyeing me, he says nothing, and it makes my hair bristle. I want to get a rise out of him. I want to annoy him. I want him to shout and throw me out. I want a _reaction_.

"So you think you understand what I'm going through."

"No," he says quietly. "I have never been in your situation. Not even a similar one."

"But you think you can help me."

"I have to believe that."

"Why?"

"Because you need help and I have means to provide it."

"So you think I'm so messed up I couldn't function without it."

"I never said that."

"But that's what you're thinking."

"It is not."

"So you think I'll just waltz in and start pouring my heart out and that'll magically heal me or some shit?"

"I seem to be thinking an awful lot of things in your mind. I know—"

"You don't! You don't know shit!"

He lifts his chin. "Tell me then."

"You—you—don't! I don't want this. Nobody ever—they don't teach you how to not smell of shit when you've been forced to bathe in it for years. Because you're expected to scrub it off, but it's too deep! I can't. It won't. It's under my skin and seeped through my muscles and into my bones. I _can't_."

"Let's talk about that."

"No! Let's not. Stop being such a fucking psychologist and _fix_ me."

"I told you—"

"You can't, yada-yada. Well that makes two of us!"

"The door is over there," he says, calm as ever, motioning at the door as he observes me.

"You are—so you just want to give up?"

"I never said that."

"Why are you not yelling at me!"

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Because!"

"Because?"

"Because it's fair!"

"Why?"

"Because I deserve it! Because I want to feel pain! Because I caused pain and it's fair!"

"Why is it fair?"

"Because I failed dad and I failed Edward and I let Ping Pong die! Come on, now. Get up and shout! Throw me out!"

"If you want to pass the responsibility of your decisions on to me you have chosen the wrong person."

"I don't want to—stop psycho-analyzing me!"

"I'm a psychologist for a reason."

"You—you! Stop that! Why are you so calm? Yell at me!"

He rests elbows on his knees, and I want him to sound smug, I want to hate him, I want him to treat me like shit, I want to see every bad characteristic in him to make yelling at him okay. Because, as he sits there, just watching me, scratching his chin like I amuse him, like I'm playing his game and not the other way around, that fuels my anger. I'm irrational, impulsive and enraged, and even more so as Dr. Hunter nods at me.

"I'm listening."

"Stop doing that!"

"What?"

"Looking like you understand what I'm saying! Like you know how I'm feeling! Like you're _expecting_ me to yell. Stop it! Stop _me_."

"Maybe you need it."

"So you think talking is going to make everything okay? You think talking will bring back Eric and make me realize at the right moment how necessary I was in his life? You think talking will erase all the time I spent in middle school desperate to hide bullying from dad? You think it will make me take off my pink glasses and see the world and the people around me without their halo? I don't _want_ to see the world like it really is. I don't _want_ to be forced to have coping mechanisms. I don't _want_ anything. And why did Newton have the right to hang himself? Why? He should've been stopped. He had no right to take the easy way out when I'll be forced to learn how to feel like I deserve good things to happen to me. As if I matter."

"You _do_ matter."

"How do you know that? You don't know that!"

"Your family and Edward's is a living proof of that. People care about you."

"Well, they shouldn't. I let them down and I'll let them down again."

"Is that unforgivable?"

"Yes."

"Why? You're only human. Have they let you down?"

"It's not the same!"

"Why?"

"Because it's not!"

"Why?"

"What's with the whys?"

"Humor me. Why?"

"Because they're better than me! I love them and I'll forgive them because there's not much they can do that I couldn't forgive them for. But I'm not that girl they think I am and they'll hate me when they see that."

"Who do you think you are, then?"

"I'm weak."

"Weak?"

"Yes, weak!"

"Oh, believe me, you're proving the opposite at this very moment."

"Stop analyzing me!"

"Merely offering a perspective, forgive me. Continue."

"You—you!"

"Yes?"

"You!"

Running his palm along his chin, he regards me. "I believe you're more afraid of showing weakness than actually having it."

"You don't know that!"

"I believe your issue is not that you're weak, it's that you're afraid of being weak and you think of that as a weakness."

"I was weak before I decided to change. I was weak in middle school."

"Think of it this way—if you hadn't had the experiences you had in middle school, you wouldn't have felt so held back and probably would've let yourself shine sooner out of stage. So it appears you're not repressing your middle school self, you've _stopped_ repressing your true self and letting your real character show. Am I close to how you feel?"

"That proves nothing."

"Maybe."

I'm panting a bit as we argue but I stop yelling at him to observe how calm he is. It feels abnormal. I rub my face and let out a slow breath.

"I'm deflecting," I say in a low voice. "I'm sorry."

Dr. Hunter's eyes are alive—not humored or serious but filled with energy.

"That's okay."

"It's _not_ okay. It's not."

"Express yourself however you feel you need to," he replies, and I feel disappointed in myself that he's being such a voice of reason while I'm yelling at him. I can't help it.

"What makes you think you're weak?"

I sigh. "I failed to act when John Newton shot my dog and himself. I just—shut down. I never thought that could happen to me."

"You were in shock. That is not a reaction you can control."

"It makes me no less responsible for what happened."

"If a murder happened in a room with a sleeping person in it, would you hold him responsible for not calling 911?"

"Of course not."

"What if that person were you?"

"I see where you're going with this. It's not the same."

"How is it not? You don't remember what happened after he shot himself in front of you, do you?"

"Just bits and pieces and what Edward told me."

"There's a limit for everyone. If you want to punish yourself for being human, go ahead, but you're fighting a lost cause. What else makes you think you're weak?"

"Middle school. I didn't fight back."

"What did you think would happen if you did?"

"The rare times I did, it got worse. Choosing between bad and worse, I chose bad."

"So you were preserving yourself. We've talked about this."

"I know."

"How about when you jumped and took that bullet for Edward? Or when you told your father to go back to Georgia? When you took charge when your mother passed away? When you found Eric's tapes and took them to the police by yourself? Do these situations not count for anything?"

"How do you know about that?"

"I watch the news."

"I mean me telling my dad to return to Georgia."

"I spoke to Edward."

"Right."

"You don't think all of that took bravery?"

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

"I had no choice."

"So you have situations in life when you're forced to preserve yourself, and then you show acts of courage not many people are capable of. So which situations do you want to define you? Which will you _let_ define you?"

"Psycho bullshit."

"Perhaps." He looks at his wrist watch and stands. I bend to take my bag, but he motions for me to stay put. His lips are pressed in a kind but modest smile, and even though it's 4:14 PM (half an hour past due), he doesn't seem to be in a hurry. He intertwines his fingers under his pouch. I shuffle my legs and look down.

"I'm sorry," I say. "For shouting at you."

I look at him when he doesn't answer, and his eyes continue to hold that energy in them.

"I've rarely been so glad a recipient of yelling."

And yet, he doesn't _fully_ smile.

"Am I right in the assumption that it's okay to let you leave for today or do you have any burdens to get off your chest?"

"I'm sorry? Do you think I'll go off myself or something?"

"Will you?"

"God, no."

He stares at me as if the idea weren't as preposterous as my reaction makes it to be.

"You seriously think I'd do that? Seriously?"

"You've gone through a lot during the last half a year. More than some will in their entire lifetime."

"Well, I'm not thinking about it. I promise to come and yell at you about it if the idea ever strikes me as appealing."

"You do that."

I pick up my stuff and stand. Slowly, I start walking to the door but stop midway and turn around. "For what it's worth, I think you rub me the wrong way just enough to make seeing you worth it."

His amusement is clear in his eyes. "I'm glad. Friday morning?"

"You bet on it."

For a few days, I seem to walk around in a perpetual state of confusion. I question my perception, but also those around me, and I'm left wondering if anything I see and notice about the people around me is how things actually are. But who's to say how things really are? I've learned a few lessons about that recently.

I climb on top of the refrigerator the next morning—it takes me three chairs and a half an hour—and sit there, watching the dark kitchen in the early morning light. It's quiet. I just sit, doing nothing but wondering what I've been doing wrong in my life to justify the intensity of my reaction and the confusion that has followed, and if it's normal to question such things. Everyone seems to be under the impression that my confusion is natural, that it's expected, that it would be a miracle if I were left unaffected by the events that have been happening for the past month. I wish I didn't agree, but I do. It's a funny way to see things, but I think it's for the best for me to live through this confusion right now and not try to be superman. Because that's my natural reaction—pretending the problem doesn't exist. But if I did that, who's to say I wouldn't become depressed for no apparent reason in ten years' time because I can't even figure out what's causing me to be that way?

Better to scream while shelving my untangled emotions than to shelve knotted emotions and leave a screaming cupboard behind.

The sound of doors opening and muffled noises reach me before I see Carlisle's and Esme's figures on the doorway. Carlisle's arms are wrapped around Esme and they're both swaying as if dancing a silent dance.

"He needs to know," Carlisle says.

"Not yet. It's horrible timing."

"But what a miracle."

Esme laughs, and it's filled with joy I've rarely heard in her laugh. It's heart-warming. I'm, once again, struck by the absolute bewilderment of witnessing their happiness some of which is supposedly pretend. Or maybe it's their habits and behavior (without me around) that Edward criticized. While I've been meaning to talk to both of them, I don't want to intrude on their moment. But I have no way out. I think of clearing my throat but the lights are switched on before I can do it. Esme lets out a scream before hyperventilating. Their arms are wrapped around her stomach.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't think anyone would be up this early."

I feel their eyes on me (and the tower of chairs I've built) as I, slowly, start to climb down the refrigerator.

"Bella! You scared me. What were you doing up there?"

"Waiting for a letter from Hogwarts."

Carlisle assists me as I climb down, and when we've returned the chairs in their places, we look at each other in silence.

"Please don't tell Edward yet," Esme says.

"Tell him what?"

"You heard," Carlisle says, but he's smiling when he returns to his place behind Esme and wraps his arms around her. "I know you heard."

I smile. "If it is what I think it is, I believe congratulations are in order. Are they?"

They both beam a toothpaste commercial worthy smile, and I have my answer.

"Congratulations! This is pretty awesome."

"Aw, honey." Esme tilts her head on the side and puts an arm on my shoulder. "Thank you."

I want to tell them to be careful sharing this news with Edward. On the one hand, he'll be thrilled for them (and himself) because his parents will finally have someone else to dote on but him, one the other, Christ, this will break him. Talk about handing issues on a silver platter to an adopted guy who's got belonging issues.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about something, Carlisle. Is that okay?"

They eye me before Carlisle kisses Esme's forehead and she goes to take a shower. Carlisle takes a seat and so do I. He rests elbows on the table, intertwines his fingers and presses his lips together.

"You don't have to look quite so warrior-like for a conversation."

He chuckles, and I take a breath.

"It concerns Edward. I know it's none of my business, and I'm not trying to butt in on your life. I'm just worried about him. Is it okay for me to add my two cents?"

He nods.

"I think I know what you see in him."

His eyebrows shoot up. "That is not what I thought you'd say."

"Did you think I was going to scold you for bad parenting?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I'm not. No family is perfect. I love my dad and brother to death, but I wouldn't dream of either of them acting according to my approval. We're different. That's both the hard and the interesting part."

"Are you implying I'm forcing Edward to act on my approval?"

"I'm Bella. I don't _imply_, no. If you believe he'd make an excellent doctor, I agree with you."

"I don't understand."

"I mean, I think he would make an excellent doctor if that is to become the path he chooses. The way he reacts in a tight situation? Definitely cut out for it. The thing is, I think _he thinks_ he needs your approval, I think he's forcing _himself_ to act on your approval, and whether or not you agree with me doesn't change the fact that he hates himself for needing it."

"What? My approval?"

"Yes. Well, at least I think so."

"If he's cut out for it then what's the problem?"

"I think you should have this conversation with Edward."

Carlisle grimaces. "The problem is, every time we speak the volume is through the roof."

"I've noticed."

"But if I can talk through you, let's do that. Tell me, if he's cut out for it, what's the problem?"

"Well, it's one thing to be good at something, it's another to want to do it. Especially if he feels the value of him as a person in your eyes hangs upon your approval of his choices."

"But you agree. He's a natural at medicine. He could have a bright future ahead of him."

"And I'm not questioning any of that. But right now, it seems the more you bring it up, the less likely he is to want to discover that path for himself."

He crosses his arms and leans against the backrest. "Did you know that when Edward was four, he saved two people from a burning car?"

I blink at him. "I did not know that."

"It was all over the news, too," he says, eyes burning. "It was because of this news that we chose to—" He stops, looks down and taps his bicep. "Anyway, if anyone's cut out for this job, it's him."

Oh, fuck. It was after this news that they chose to adopt Edward, wasn't it? _Because_ of it? Shit. If Edward hears that he was chosen because of expectations of a future that he's not sure he wants, he might just run away from home. I know I would. Edward, if you hear all of this and still manage to have a normal relationship with your parents, you will be my hero, because my heart is breaking for you.

"I think he needs the assurance that whatever he chooses, you'll approve of. Even if it's plumbing."

"Plumbing?"

"Plumbing, waitering, whatever."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's better than that."

I press my lips together because I know he loves Edward, and he _will_ come to grips with whatever Edward chooses, but at this moment, Edward needs his support so that he could tone down the extra-curricular escapism and actually figure out what he wants to do without Carlisle's arrows.

"You don't like what I'm saying."

It's not what you're saying, Carlisle, it's what you're leaving unsaid that bothers me.

"I do not."

"I'm proud of my son."

"I've never doubted that."

"And he _is_ too good to settle for anything less than he's worth."

"Are we still talking about his supposed career?"

"Don't worry, you're ambitious. You're good for him."

My _ambition_ is why you _approve_ of me? Oh, fuck off, Carlisle.

It's the unwavering certainty that turns my insides out, makes me boil with anger, and if my back were okay, I'd go for a good four hour jog, three of which I'd spend screaming. I _am_ able to stand, so I do just that, and I have no reason to hide my disapproval of his closed-mindedness.

"Thanks," I say, tight-lipped. "This has been enlightening."

He stands. "Do you need any help?"

"I'm fine."

I'm surprised my skin doesn't show signs of boiling because I am furious. I find Edward sleeping without a care in the world, holding the pillow I left for him. His lips are parted and he might be coming down with a cold because he's wheezing. I open the blanket, tug the pillow from his arms and lie myself on him. He wraps arms around my waist, and even though his morning wood is poking my thigh, I press myself closer, kissing his neck, sucking it, hiding my fingers in his hair and stroking his neck and chest. I press a wet, needy kiss on his lips, and his eyes open. He gives me a sexy, adorable smile, and returns the kiss.

"What's the occasion?"

I grind myself against him, and he twitches before stilling and rubbing my back. "You can't—it's morning—Bella?" He grips my hand. "You're shaking like crazy. What happened?"

Stroking and squeezing, I rub his skin, his warm skin and taut muscles, and kiss a trail from his chest to lips. "Let me love you."

"You're upset."

"Can you sit up?"

"Why are you upset?"

"Please," I whisper. "Do you want to do this?"

Edward sits against the headboard. In the dim morning light, I tear off my T-shirt, straddle his lap and resume to kissing him. Edward's hands grip my hips as he pushes me down. "What's the matter?"

"Is it okay to get you off?"

"What?"

"Is it?"

"Of course but—what happened?"

"Later."

I have no clue what I'm doing as I stroke his skin, kissing and sucking. It's when he returns my enthusiasm that I feel the love and pleasure in his touch. He wipes hair off my forehead, leaving his hands on my neck as he licks his lips and gazes at me like I'm the only thing that matters. I lift my hips, just slightly, but it's enough for him to grip my hip and press down a bit. He grunts but eyes me with a sort of wild wonder as he pulls me into a kiss. We share desperate kisses, reach a rhythm, and I watch, fascinated, when his head falls back as he presses and holds me down once, twice, three times. His entire body twitches before becoming still. He's panting, and it takes him a while to lift his head. He gives me a lazy smile as he rests his forehead against mine.

He seems shy, but the kiss he gives me is tender, protective, and after pulling me against him he maneuvers us to lie down. He hides his face in my neck. I shiver.

"Your pants are wet."

His chest shakes as he laughs. "That's what happens, yeah."

"I think I've heard of that."

He straddles my hips and pushes hair off my face. "Is your back okay?"

"Yeah. That's why I wanted to be on top."

Edward smiles and presses a wet, lingering kiss on my lips. "I'm sorry I didn't last very long."

"My extensive research and personal experience with guys will tell you that, oh, wait, never mind."

Laughing, he kisses my nose. "Do you want me to return the favor?"

"Is that something you'd want to do?"

He huffs, and it's sort of a wheeze but I can understand he's laughing.

"Hey! No laughing at the virgin!"

He smiles against my cheek and whispers, "I'm sorry, you're adorable. We should probably talk about this later on, but yes. _Definitely_ something I want to do."

"But, uh, not today. Is that okay?"

"Of course. Can you wait one second? I'll be right back."

He returns sans pajama pants but with boxer briefs, slips under the blanket and wraps arms around me. "You're incredible." He breathes against my ear and strokes my waist. "Now tell me, what made you so upset?"

"Your dad."

"My _dad_? My _dad_ got you so hot and bothered you just had to come to me?"

"I believe you were the one cumming."

"You snarky girl." He snickers. "What happened?"

"I talked to him like I told you I would, and at first it seemed it was going well and he was willing to listen but he, God, he pissed me off and I'm so impressed you're not strangling him half of the time because that's what I'll always want to do when in the same room with him. Oh, Edward, what he said? Jesus. No wonder you feel pressured."

"Did you have a shouting match?"

"I was tempted."

"I'm sorry," he mutters against my skin. "I'm sorry you had to see how stubborn he can be."

No, _I_'m sorry, Edward, because once you find that your parents chose you because of a future they expect but you don't, once you find out that your parents are expecting a miracle of their own—unless they learn to see you for who you are and how much you have to offer—you'll be heartbroken and I'm incapable of healing wounds that deep. I desperately hope Carlisle accidentally misworded the cause for your adoption, because if he didn't, there's a lot of pain coming your way.

I turn to face him. "Have you googled your real name?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Never thought of it."

"You were seven in two thousand, right? Four officially?"

"Yes."

"Do you have your laptop around? I think there's something you should see."

Is it a stretch to believe news like this made the internet those days? I guess we'll find out.

Edward turns on his laptop, I open Google and enter 'Edward Jr. Masen burning car.'

Nothing comes up.

"Shit."

"What're you—"

I use search tools—custom date range—and add the year. Sure enough, there are several little snippets of the news but one actual story. The bed dips as Edward sits up and grabs the laptop.

"Holy shit."

"What?"

"I—" He clears his throat. "I _remember_ this. I thought—shit."

"You thought what?"

His eyes grow wide. "I thought it was a dream."

Together, we read the story. It gives me goose bumps because, fuck, Edward performed CPR two weeks before his seventh birthday (the real one in March) on a thirteen year old girl, and found a bypasser who helped him drag a mature man away from a burning car. There's a picture, probably taken with a potato because there are about two pixels to it, but you can clearly see a boy wrapped in a yellow blanket, eyes fixed on two stretchers. The article, of course, mentions the fact he's living in an orphanage at the time, but they get his age wrong. Not that I blame them—in those two pixels, he looks malnourished and tall but so incredibly young.

"How did you _know_?"

"I didn't. Carlisle mentioned it, but of course, he couldn't have known you know about being adopted, or that the information is available on the internet."

"All this time, all I had to do is google my real name, and I would've known."

"True. But you didn't know your real name."

Absent-minded, he nods and, using search tools, googles versions of his name. Nothing but what we already read comes up, but still, the knowledge is huge. After a while, he shuts his laptop, hugs me and whispers, "Thank you."

"Anytime."

It's getting lighter outside, but we don't move, neither do we fall asleep. Edward smiles as I draw patterns on his cheek. He strokes my waist.

"I don't know how to repay you for how much you've taught me about myself," he says.

"You could start by catching me!" I giggle and tear myself out of his arms, but he grips my wrist.

"But you can't run."

"Shit. You're right." I put my arms on his stomach and grin. "But I can tickle you!"

If at first he seems mildly amused by my efforts to make him laugh, he starts shaking with laughter when I stroke the bottom of his right foot with my toes. My face hurts from grinning so hard, but not even five seconds have passed when he quickly but gently pins me under him. He straddles my hips, presses his palms against my waist and leans so close to my face I breathe his breath.

"Oh, don't you dare get all shy on me now," he says, grinning as he leans even closer. He whispers, "We are such equals it's ridiculous."

It's amazing to hear those words from him, to think of us as equals. So maybe I have issues, and maybe he does, too, but how amazing will our relationship be in spite of and because of all of what we'll have to go through?

My grin widens. I bend my knee to rub the bottom of his foot again, and he twitches and presses his face against my neck in laughter. "You evil little girl."

I sober, soon, as I look at him, hair falling against his forehead, panting and blinking slowly, grinning like all the worry in this world is conquerable when I'm by his side. I wipe hair off his forehead (it falls back) and observe his toothy grin as he nuzzles my nose, gently, cherishing, with so much happiness in his eyes we could be flying together. I know, on the horizon, he's got pain waiting for him, and maybe I do, too, but at this moment, I need to believe that we will be okay.

"Never leave," he whispers, and I see that boy, that small boy who saved two people from a horrible death, and this man, so desperate to belong he doesn't even realize how much approval he needs in his choices. But I'll be here. I grin, and when I pull his lips to mine, he mirrors my grin, so with teeth pressing together rather than lips we fall against the bed in laughter and I just know, everything will be okay.


	23. The Unbearable Lightness of Being

"Permission to sing boisterously, sir?"  
"If you must."  
"Row, row, row your boat  
Gently down the stream!  
Belts off, trousers down!  
Isn't life a scream?! Oy!"  
"Fabulous. University education, you can't beat it."

— Blackadder Goes North, Plan A

: :

Habits can be broken by change of routine. The simplest change can make you reconsider the schedule you didn't know you had, the things you didn't know you did and thought. Habits can make you prejudiced, they can make you think and act a certain way without you realizing. How often do you reconsider the person your habits make of you? Habits make us. Habits break us.

It is Edward's habit to drown himself in extra-curriculars, just like it is mine to think the way I do about myself. And it's difficult to bring myself out of it because I've been doing it for years. It's difficult to let go of what (you think) you've known.

In being predictable, habits offer a routine that we can count on. So we can think less. Have a reason to lean on the way things have always been to explain, justify and support how they are. As if we cannot or can't be bothered to step out of the chain and change the course of action. Why are things the way they are? Because they always have been. Why aren't we changing how they are? Because the way things are, it's easy. It's safe. It's our comfort zone. In theory, everyone likes thinking out of the box. Or, at least, we like to think of ourselves as people who think outside of the box.

It is perhaps that need for breaking my routine—for thinking that there are only certain things in life I can change. Perhaps it is that need to prove myself, to change myself and the world, to have an impact at the cost of my thinking routine, that forced me to step outside my box. Because, sure, I always thought one day I will make an impact. One day, when my life is perfect, when I've made myself to be the best possible person I could ever be, after high school and college when I have a steady job as an actress, stage or otherwise, I will start changing the world.

One day.

The problem is, that day will never arrive unless I make it.

But before my grandiose plan to change the world, I have a sillier one to make Edward's first real birthday as memorable as possible. Starting from the fact that, at 4:15 AM, I hide twenty one little notes all over the house and the garage. When I'm done, I sit on the edge of his bed and run fingers through his hair.

"Wakey, wakey."

He groans and clears his throat. "What's with the early morning wake up calls?"

"I want to make out with you?"

His lips twitch from a stifled smile before he opens the blanket for me. "Why are you up so early?"

"Because I go to sleep four hours before you do?"

"C'mere."

He pulls me in his arms, intertwines a warm leg with one of mine and looks altogether too sleepy and adorable to be capable of pinning me under him and straddling me, which is why I'm so caught by surprise I let out a squeal. Snickering, I pretend to be grossed out by his morning breath.

"Seriously, where are your manners?"

"_My_ manners?" He nibbles on my ear and whispers, "_You're_ the one who keeps waking me up in the middle of the night."

He throws a leg over my hips and lies next to me close enough to crawl under my skin. He peppers my neck with kisses and sighs when he snuggles oh-so-close and, holding me tightly against him, closes his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"_I_ am trying to sleep," he responds and presses his lips against my neck. "Now, if you _don't mind_."

"But Edward—"

"It's too early for life on this planet. Try again at noon."

"Edward—"

"And don't you dare replace yourself with a fucking pillow. I will not let you go this time."

He squeezes me, gentle yet protective, and so I listen to his breathing even out as I fight goose bumps—the good kind—and play with his hair. I don't let him sleep for long because his parents will be waking up soon and I want to do this before they wake up. So I reach for the bedside table, take my white rose and stick it under his nose. I brush the petals against his lips.

"Bella," he warns, snuggling closer.

I kiss his ear and whisper, "Happy twenty first, Edward."

I pull back. He runs a hand over his face and makes eye contact, blinking.

"You're kidding."

"You forgot." I bring the rose to his nose and smile. "I, ah, I know guys aren't probably excited about flowers or whatever, but I really wanted to get you one so please pretend it's the best thing ever because it's coming from me."

Blinking but with a growing smile, he sits up, takes my white rose and sniffs it. There's a twinkle in his eyes. "It's the best thing ever because it's coming from you."

I slide off the bed. Edward's eyes linger on the little note attached to my flower. His grin widens as he reads it, and when he's done, he jumps up, wraps arms around my thighs, lifts me up and twirls me around. I laugh when my hair brushes the ceiling.

"Damn, you're enthusiastic."

Slowly, he lets my feet touch the carpet, brushes hair off my forehead and eyes me like I'm the Sun to his Solar System.

"That's the reaction I want to get when I propose to you," I add.

He laughs and kisses my forehead.

"So they're hidden? And I have to find the next one? What happens when I reach the last one?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

He wraps me in his arms and squeezes. "You evil little girl."

"You betcha."

A second later, as I sit on his bedside, I watch Edward act like a five year old boy, running around the room, throwing clothes on and grinning like a maniac.

"Can I use your computer while you're searching the house?"

"It's under the bed," he says before grabbing his rose and running out of the room. I don't think I've ever seen him act so silly and enthusiastic. I love it. I make sure his Mac is charged before I inch upstairs, sneak into the living room—he's in the garage—hide myself in the closet and wait. I can hear him moving around, finding notes that say stuff about him and lead him to the next note. I think I've sat there for about twenty minutes before the closet door opens. Edward is stuffing my notes in his pocket before he makes eye contact and lets out a laugh.

"Shh. Your parents are sleeping."

Edward stifles his laughter, but he's smiling as he crouches and rests elbows on his knees. He has that twinkle in his eyes and I'm afraid his face might break in two from that grin.

"Have I told you you're my favorite girl ever?" he asks as he, in vain, attempts to suppress his grin. "Are you my gift again? I could totally work with that."

"C'mon," I motion at the closet. "Join me."

"There's no way we're going to fit in there."

"We will," I reply, scooting away from the wall. "You just have to be flexible and sit behind me. Like this." I show him, and he sits behind me so that I'm between his bent legs. He gently pulls me against him and wraps arms around my stomach. I pull the door closed, and we're in the dark. Edward rests his head in the crook of my neck. His chest is shaking from laughter.

"So why, dear girlfriend of mine, are we sitting in the closet at this god forsaken hour on my birthday?"

"Because you love me."

"That, I do." His embrace is warm, and he breathes on my neck, all signs of joking gone. "Were they true?" he asks, barely above a whisper, like he's afraid of a negative. "The notes?"

"Yup."

"All of them?"

"Yup."

"Even the seventh one?"

"Yup."

He lets out a breath. "One day, I will write a book about meeting you and nobody will believe me you're for real."

"Hardy har har."

"So is this our first date?"

"That was the idea."

"Best first date ever."

I smile. "I have tickets to stand-up at Laughs Comedy Spot on 124th Avenue. It's at four PM. Wanna join?"

If voice could express an eye roll, his is doing it. "No, I'd totally skip that."

"_Sarcasm_, really? I've ruined you."

He laughs. "I hope so."

"Now, I actually wanted to show you something."

"In a pitch black closet? I'm afraid we might have some technical difficulties."

I open his laptop and as the screen light blinds us, Edward groans. It's low and he still sounds sleepy.

"So, before I glamorously announced my feelings for you at the hospital, I'd planned on presenting you a slide show to show you how brilliant I think you are. During my presentation, you're not allowed to: one, laugh, two, grow an ego the size of a bulldozer. Deal?"

I know he's grinning against my neck because his teeth make contact with my skin.

"Deal."

I open my slide show.

"The _pillow_ to your _carrot_?" He huffs, taking sharp breaths, chest shaking before he erupts in loud laughter. I exaggerate a scoff, and he takes several deep breaths before saying, "Pardon. Continue."

But he's smiling, and continues to break the agreement with every slide. In his defense, I did cover his supposed life story and characteristics and stories about his heroics with comic strips and silly videos. At one point, during a more serious slide that explains why he's important to me, Edward snuggles so very close, nuzzles my neck and hums. That all changes when I compare his intoxicated self to a roller-skating baby tiger on drugs. When my slides are over, I sit up and put the laptop by our feet. Edward pulls me close.

"I just wanted to thank you for being you," I mutter, a bit embarrassed. I kiss his jaw, rest my head under it and draw a pattern on his shoulder. Edward runs his fingers through my hair, trying to catch my attention, and his eyes, although silly and amused, hold affection and wonder in them. He's smiling, but it's not at all ironic or smirk-like. It's kind and caring and everything I love about him. His eyes twinkle.

"You do realize you've set the bar so high for me in terms of gift-giving I'll never reach over it," he says, running an absent-minded hand over my upper arm. He leans in close, whispering, "You're sort of wonderful, you know that?"

"Compliments, keep 'em comin'." I take a breath because I feel like I might burst from affection for this incredible man I've met. "Also, I don't really know if flowers mean anything, but if a white rose means that I want your head chopped off as soon as possible, please disregard that minor detail."

He laughs. "It's white. That's for innocence, right?"

"Ah, shit, maybe. I'm sorry. I don't think about shit like that. You can just give it back to me, I'll put it in my room."

"Calm down. It's just a fucking flower."

"I am getting seriously concerned about the impact my language is having on yours."

Again, he laughs.

"Besides, if you need it to be symbolic," he says, voice lowering. "You should know that I am innocent when it comes to you. This is all new for me, too."

"I know you can't see my face, my eyes just popped out from being rolled so hard."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

"Oh, really. Did all four of your previous girls hear that, too?"

No sooner have the words escaped than I slap my mouth.

"Fuck. I'm so sorry. I wanted you to have the perfect day, but I'm exhausted from… everything, and shit just spews out of my mouth when I'm tired. I'm sorry."

Saying nothing for a few seconds, Edward squeezes me. "If you've decided my past bothers you, you can say so. But don't say it doesn't bother you and then make comments like that." He nuzzles my ear. "I mean what I just said. Maybe you can't believe me just yet, but I mean it. How I feel about you—I didn't even know it's possible to—to, fuck. To yearn and cherish and just—I want to protect you and please you and make you laugh. I want so much I'm afraid I'll scare you away."

I glance up and him, and he looks so earnest and open, the way he only knows how to be with me, and I treasure that. I place my palm flat against his cheek, and he leans into it.

"You won't," I say when he kisses my palm. "I believe you. But—maybe we should still talk about, you know, past. Just to put it behind us."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

I smile. "Also, consider that I just poured my heart out to you in twenty one little notes. What if _I_ scare _you_ away?"

He snorts, but it sounds like a four year old giggling, and I can't help but laugh along.

"Wait, wait, open your mouth."

He frowns but complies as I slowly turn around in his arms to inspect his bottom teeth.

"Wha—?"

"Ha! I found a flaw!"

"Pardon?"

"Your bottom teeth are crooked."

"And that's good?"

"That's brilliant. I thought I was never going to find a flaw."

He lips pull into fake smile that reveals all his teeth, four crooked teeth and all, and points at his right fang. "This one's acrylic."

"What's that?"

"A sort of plastic. It's not real."

"Why? Did you get yourself so drunk you started smashing your head against the wall?"

"Far less boring," he replies. "The milk tooth never grew."

"Damn," I reply. "That _is_ boring."

He nudges my side but chuckles.

"Okay, something else."

"What?"

"Flaws. Name them."

He leans his face forward and puts my hand on his hair. "My dandruff is back."

I mess up his hair.

"Aw, it is."

"Mom thinks it's stress. It returned when you, you know, got shot."

I observe his curly hair and massage his skull until I notice a scar, a sharp line about seven inches long hidden under his hair. I trail it with my index finger, from the back of his left ear to the top of his head. It's quite wide.

"And this?"

He lifts his head so that I'm holding on to the nape of his neck. "I don't know. I've always had it."

I kiss his cheek. Edward has other ideas but I turn away.

"I can't kiss you today?"

"Morning breath."

"Watch me care," he replies, nibbling my bottom lip before opening my mouth for a real kiss. He tastes like pancakes and I taste like—frankly, I don't want to know.

"Wait, wait, flaws," I say between kisses. "Flaws."

"Clearly there is something wrong with my kissing if you want to make a list of all the things that are wrong with me."

"Don't laugh, okay?"

"I don't usually sit alone in my room laughing at my shortcomings."

"Consider me surprised," I reply. "But seriously, okay. You're on my pedestal because I'm, you know, so in love with you I kind of worship you and I don't think I see you like others do. So, help me out. Give me a reality check or something."

His face softens as the most adorable grin covers his face. "Worship me, huh?"

"Shush. I am still capable of kicking your ass should your ego grow out of your ear."

He nuzzles my neck, kisses it, covering me in goose bumps, and when he pulls back, the Crest commercial grin is still there. "I don't think you're supposed to see the person you're in love with like others do. Isn't that the whole point?"

"But, but. Help me out. You're so _you_ and I'm so me, it'll help me to think of you as something tangible."

He holds out his tongue, and I think he's just being smug until he licks my cheek and pulls back, looking all wicked and satisfied with himself. My cheek gets cold.

"You're grose."

"Just making sure you know I'm tangible."

"Smug bastard. How would you like to have your face licked?"

"Why don't you find out?"

I pull my tongue over his rough cheek.

"It's like licking sandpaper."

"I rather enjoyed it."

I nudge him. He laughs. Helping me sit sideways, he puts his hands behind my head, draws my face close to his, and doesn't close his eyes when he makes my lip wet and kisses me. He runs his tongue over my upper teeth and bottom ones before pulling back.

"All straight."

"Har, har."

"What's with this obsession with my flaws? I have many. I can't risk listing them all."

"Why? I can list mine if you want."

"Christ, no."

"Urgh, I know. We'd starve to death."

"Bella," he warns, and his tone is earnest. He runs his hands through my hair, back and forth, as he eyes me. "Okay," he says. "I want to hear your list."

"Mine? Well, shit. Okay. I'll consider myself single by the end of the night."

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes but doesn't.

"Tell me what you like about yourself."

"Yay! Pancakes in a minute!"

"Bella."

I run my thumb across his lips and stubble-covered chin. I stroke it.

"Teeth," I say. "I think I like my teeth."

I pull both of his eyebrows upward with my thumbs, and the sight makes me laugh. "You should see yourself. I've just make you look like a furry gorilla."

While his mouth quirks up, he doesn't share my enthusiasm. "I'm listening."

"Uh, okay. I kind of like my hair now. I used to hate it, but short and blonde and messy? I think it suits me."

He observes my face, but when I don't continue, he asks, "Well?"

"That's it."

First, he blinks at me. He draws absent-minded circles on my scalp with his thumbs.

"You're kidding me."

"No, I'm not good at self-delusion. Delusion about the world? Apparently, I'm brilliant at that. Deluding myself, though? Not so much."

"But you're confident. Don't tell me you're faking it."

"That's because I decided it doesn't matter. Not because I decided that this reality sees me as beautiful. It doesn't."

"Haven't you heard?" Edward brushes hair off my forehead while his laptop shuts itself off. We're in the dark again. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Haven't you heard? Evolution has made the beholder look for signs of health and fertility. Red lips and symmetric face, boobs and everything. "

"So? I don't see where you find yourself lacking."

"Oh, come on." I take his hand and put it on my boob. "On a scale from one to ten, how flat-chested am I?"

"Did you just make me _grope_ you?"

"I might have."

He's laughing as he gives my boob a gentle squeeze. "Perky. Definitely a curve there."

"You're supposed to agree with me!"

"Am I? I have no problems with your breasts."

"You've been raised to be too polite. I want you to tell the truth, always."

"What makes you think I'm not telling the truth?"

"Oh, come on."

"No, seriously. Do you think every male out there has the same taste in body type? Or a boob type? I'm offended on behalf of the decent males out there." He slides his hand off my boob and on my waist. "I'm not saying I like you in spite of your boobs, or because of them. They're a part of you and _you're_ the one who'll have to make peace with what you've been given." He leans closer. "But of course I would hope to enjoy them, too, in the future. If you'll let me."

Even when I can't see it, I am positive he's grinning.

"You can start now," I say, and put both of his palms on my boobs, to which he starts to laugh and squeezes them before wrapping arms around me.

"You're making me feel like a sex offender."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Always," he says, like it's a good thing. Stroking on my upper arms, he sighs. "Bella, just because you have issues with your body does not mean that I do, too. Maybe it's easiest for you to believe that I don't like some parts of you. Because then you wouldn't have to accept that I want you like you are. But you know what? You don't know shit about me."

Surprised, I blink at him.

"But that's okay." He leans closer and whispers, "I probably don't know shit about you. Do you want me to tell you, over and over again, how beautiful I think you are? Is that what you want? I can. I can waltz in and praise you in embarrassing amounts, and it wouldn't change a thing. Because it is your business, not mine, how you feel about your body, and your right to feel however you feel."

"Oh, wow."

"What?"

"You've really thought about this."

"I have."

I smile.

"But the thing is, I don't want your opinion of yourself to start depending on others' because if you let it, you'll never really be happy. Even mine. You don't have to agree with my reality, but you could learn to believe it's just as true to me as yours is to you."

He pauses as I let his words sink in.

"You are just a fountain of wisdom today."

"Am I getting through to you?"

"Maybe."

"Will it help if I tell you what I love about you just like you did in your little notes?"

"Wait," I reply, snuggling closer to him. "Enough room for my ego now? I think so. Go on."

Edward laughs against my neck, chest shaking and arms wrapped around me. "Jesus, sitting in a cupboard at five AM on my birthday morning? I _love_ you."

"Jesus? You named my ego Jesus? You're about to be stroked, Jesus. I hope you enjoy it."

Huffing and laughing, Edward hides his face in my neck. "Where did you _come_ from?"

"It's a wild guess, I know, but I think my parents had sex."

Edward gasps.

"I know. I was surprised, too."

We laugh. He sighs, and I hear the smile in his voice as he puts hands on my waist and holds them there. He whispers, "Your waist."

"My waist? You like my _waist_? That's boring to the point of being offensive. I feel sorry for myself."

"Did you or did you not want to hear my opinion?"

"Did! I did. My apologies."

"Used to drive me nuts, your waist," he continues, trailing a pattern to my lips. "Smile." As I do, he switches on his laptop with his toe and we squint from the light. His eyes linger on my mouth as his thumb plays with my lower lip. His own smile. "Fuck me," he whispers and leans in for a kiss before I snort from laughter.

"I don't think I'm quite ready for that step yet."

His eyes twinkle. "I meant your smile. You could start wildfires with it."

"Cheesiness level: Edward Cullen. There, I said it."

"Fine." He scoffs, pretending to be hurt. "I think you're ugly and talentless."

"One a scale from one to ten, you're a stone when it comes to showing affection."

His lips twitch. "I think you're boring and selfish."

"Likewise."

"And ugly. So ugly."

"Enjoying yourself, are you?"

He grins and muffles his laughter against my neck. "Very much."

"I do believe you were in the middle of complimenting me. Don't let me stop you."

He runs his hands to my thighs and I realize how much being in this position for so long is going to hurt my back later.

"Your legs. Jesus, your legs."

"Jesus has hot legs. Gotcha."

He ignores me. "There are so many things to love about you, Bella. Just your—everything," he whispers. "You're hot."

"You did not just say that."

"You are hot."

"I don't appreciate the sarcasm."

He breathes against my ear. "I'm not mocking you," he says. "Do you know how many times I wanted to punch guys in the locker room when they noticed you were gaining some curves? God. Or when Laurent used to bring you up in a conversation, I just wanted to—you know. It pissed me off."

"We should find you a therapist. I don't like the influence my language is having on yours."

Edward sort of bites his lower lip, and, unamused, tilts his head sideways. He's earnest. "Can you please not turn everything I say into a joke? Your brother does it, too, and maybe you're used to deflecting but—please don't. Not now. Not when I'm trying to tell you something."

I sigh. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He presses his lips together and when he continues, his voice is lower. "Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you understand why I haven't been saying all those things all this time? Now that I'm telling you, you don't believe me. I'd rather show you, anyway. How _do_ you want me to help you? _How_?"

"I'm too tall," I say, like it's the answer to all of his questions. "I'm five eleven now."

"So what? I'm six foot eight. I still have ten inches on you."

"I have stretch marks."

"Boo-hoo. Move away, hunger in Africa, Bella has stretch marks."

"I have a huge forehead."

"Never noticed."

"I have a bumpy nose."

"My nose is crooked, too. See?"

"But you're a guy."

"So it's okay for a guy to have a bumpy nose but not a girl? I do believe you're sexually harassing yourself."

"I have a broken back."

"Yeah, and you're working harder than anyone I know to fix it," he says, not missing a beat. "Are you quite done feeling sorry for yourself?"

"You don't understand!"

"What? What do I not understand?"

"When you're done seeing me through your love goggles, you'll see me for who I am!"

"And who is that? Huh? A girl more beautiful than meets the eye? The strongest woman I've ever met? Someone with incredible—"

"A weak girl just pretending to be tough!"

"Really? Really?! What about a tough girl who's been made to feel weak? How about that?"

"You don't understand!"

"_Make_ me! _Make_ me understand! Why do you hate yourself for shit no one else has noticed? Why is it so important? I love you like I've _never_ fucking loved _anyone_ before! Is that not enough?! Why can't you just let it go?"

"Because I—" I take a breath and wait for my back to hurt from it as I realize it's Edward's birthday morning and we're spending it sitting in a cupboard having what is perhaps our first serious quarrel. The thought makes me deflate. I press my lips together. "It's too hard," I whisper. My voice trembles. "It's so fucking hard, Edward."

Edward squeezes me, pressing his lips to my neck, voice too gentle for its own good. "You're probably too proud to tell me your back is—"

Light blinds us when the door opens. Carlisle is holding Esme, resting his chin on her shoulder, eyebrows raised. Esme seems to be stifling laughter.

"It is quarter to six in the morning," she says. "Quarter to six. What, may I ask, could you possibly have been doing sitting in our living room cupboard?"

"Thursday morning cupboard quarrel," I answer as I slowly start to get up. Edward and Carlisle help me. When I'm up and Edward is standing beside me, red-eared and gripping his Macintosh, Carlisle and Esme continue to gape.

"Thursday morning… cupboard quarrel," Esme repeats, tone unchanging.

"Exactly," I confirm. "Every teenager knows it. It's the sign of a healthy couple. Right, Edward?"

The door to Edward's room receives an incredible amount of attention when Edward closes it and lifts his eyes to meet mine. He puts away his laptop and walks over to where I stand. If at first he looked like he was about to laugh at what I told his mom, his eyes sober the moment he notices my quivering lips. The horrible thing is, I don't have a clue as to why I'm crying. Yet I am. Edward, the sweet man he is, opens his arms for me.

"I'm sorry."

He holds me tighter. I soak in his warmth. "Dr. Hunter warned me this might happen."

"Don't you dare start evaluating me, too."

He doesn't say it at the time, but Dr. Hunter told him that might happen, too. Yelling out of fear of being evaluated or expected a negative emotion that I don't feel I have the right to feel. It's difficult to grasp even now that I'm aware of doing it, much less when I feel like I am expected a reaction I don't want to have. It doesn't take much to make me shout, not after everything that's happened. The more I fight against it, the likelier I am to end up standing in front of Dr. Hunter, expressing my inadequacy and fear and fear of inadequacy. Meanwhile, he just sits there, watching and evaluating, offering words of wisdom said calmly and without judgment that make me angrier. I, apparently, am guarding a fuckton of emotions that is only able to come out as anger. It would make me self-conscious being aware of it if it weren't intense enough to be out of my control.

Edward runs his fingers through my hair before kissing the top of my head. "I'll bring us some breakfast and we can talk, okay? You can cry and shout or whatever you feel like. We can talk about anything you want."

"I don't want to yell at you," I mutter.

"I know," he replies. "But maybe you should. I'll be right back."

I settle a pile of pillows against the headboard before resting against it, and when Edward returns, he's got orange juice and pancakes and a smile. He sits cross legged next to me, and I offer a sheepish smile before digging in.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"_You're_ sorry?"

"Yes. I shouldn't have responded to your provocation. I should've known better."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dr. Hunter told me you—"

"Please don't. I'm glad you care enough to talk to him, but please don't tell me what he told you. I feel like you're all expecting me to act and react a certain way. I don't like it."

"Fair enough," he replies. "But it annoys me when I pay you a compliment and you don't believe me."

"Why?"

"Can I generalize? You won't like it."

"Shoot."

"Men, I would say, don't like to assure. At least I don't. Women tend to want assurance, and the fact you're unlike any women I've ever met doesn't change that you seem to expect it. I don't like that. There's nothing sexier than a woman who can take a compliment."

"So I should pretend to agree with you when I don't."

"No. No, definitely not. I'm not asking you to agree with me. I'm asking you to _believe_ me. Because I don't want to assure, I want to give a compliment."

"Point taken."

"Do you think it's possible for you to try to believe me in the future?"

"I'll try. But I don't get it. First you tell me it's okay for me to feel about myself however I feel, and then you tell me to let go."

"It's the association with what happened that I want you to let go. It's pointless. It leads nowhere. Having the right to feel however you feel about yourself is not the same as hanging on to how you were treated in middle school and letting that justify your self-esteem. Two separate things, Bella."

"But how do I let go? I don't know how."

"Neither do I," Edward admits, sighing. "But it kills me to see you hate yourself when you have no reason to. And the things you're insecure about, seriously? Your height is such a turn on."

"A _turn_ _on_?"

"Yes," he replies, mirroring my smile. "What can I do to help you?" he mutters. "Tell me."

"I prescribe daily make out sessions to cure low self-esteem."

Edward snickers, puts the breakfast tray on the bedside table and straddles my legs. He leans close. "I didn't even know it's possible to love someone this fucking much."

"Come closer."

"Why?"

"Closer."

When he's inches away from my face, I pull him to me and breathe against his neck.

"Hold on. I'm about to give you a hickey."

He throws his head back in laughter but doesn't retreat, and when I'm done sucking his neck, he pulls my feet to make me lie down, straddles me properly and leans close to my face so that his face reddens slightly. "Bella, Bella, Bella," he mutters, kissing my neck and cheeks and lips. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Love me."

"Easiest thing in the world."

: :

The entire week is overshadowed by news of the father-son suicides and replays of Eric's videos. It is nothing but background noise because Edward's family muffles news outlets that express curiosity of the people who did not have first-hand experience with watching a suicide happen. Newspapers stop lying around. I condone it because I understand the reasons behind their intentions, but not until I hear dad's concern on Skype do I fully comprehend the intensity of journalism. Not only do I read and hear bits and pieces of journalists and news anchors reporting the story, I also start receiving phone calls and emails from the former. Dereck Norman is among them.

Edward gets pissed the first time it happens. He's trying to protect me, and as sweet as it is, I am not angry at the news outlets. It's just intensely surreal, especially when Emmett calls me to tune in on Oprah to see her discuss the situation. Discuss me. Strangest three minutes I've ever spent.

Officer Kell returns my laptop. Newton had it. I expect it to be broken or at least reveal signs of using, but it is unharmed.

Edward is a bit miffed (and trying hard to hide it) because I wouldn't agree to have dinner with him after stand-up, but I need to make sure we arrive home on time. He falls silent the moment he sees a taxi in front of our house and observes it from the rearview mirror as he parks. He frowns when a girl with curly bright red hair steps out.

"Do you know—"

The girl turns his head toward us and waves. Edward gapes.

"You did not," he says.

"_I _had nothing to do with it."

Edward blinks at me. "Sure you didn't."

"I didn't!"

"But you _knew_," he accuses. He cannot hold back his smile. "You definitely knew."

"Maybe," I reply, still taking off my seatbelt when Edward is on the other side of the lawn, hugging Rosalie. The taxi leaves. I don't know her that well, still, but I've never seen her so at ease with herself as she talks with comfort and greets Edward's parents like she couldn't be happier to be here.

"I like your wig," Edward says as he helps me walk downstairs. Rosalie waits for us in the parlor, observing.

"Thanks," she says, offering a cheeky smile. "I like your girlfriend."

"Thank you." Edward laughs. "Should I be jealous?"

"Very."

"Cat fight!"

They chuckle, and it is killing me that I can't just hop downstairs and jump on them and wrestle and tickle and, just, stop being so careful. But I can't. Slow as ever, I have to be okay with being a constant nuisance for anyone living in the same house with me.

I've arranged a Skype date with dad and Emmett to have an excuse to leave Rosalie and Edward some time to catch up with each other. Emmett sounds almost as worried as dad (even though he's plenty amused by the attention the media is paying to his little sister). We discuss the choices that await him. He hasn't made up his mind yet.

When I'm done, I join Edward and Rose in the living room. Rosalie wants to watch a movie, and despite his indifference toward movies, Edward agrees. We're not even halfway through _Hangover_ before Edward leans his head against my shoulder, makes himself comfortable, and falls asleep not even a minute later.

"I woke him up at five AM today," I tell Rosalie. "I've exhausted him."

She smiles, but doesn't comment. We don't talk for a while, until Edward starts drooling on my shoulder.

"Sexy."

She laughs, it's a tad awkward and silent, but still unlike the timid one I remember from New Year's Eve. "You're so different," she says.

"Why do people who have changed the most keep telling _me_ that?"

"You are, though." She looks at me. "How do you really feel about… everything? Can you ask how you, you know, put that guy in jail? Edward told me not to pry, but I can't help it."

"He's making me sound like a psychopath."

"No. Just someone who's been through a lot."

"Ah, please don't. Everyone keeps telling me that. It's kind of starting to piss me off."

"I'm sorry," she says. "But will you tell me?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

So with one of the funniest films in the background, I summarize my unfunny story. She listens quietly and with interest. After I'm done, she sighs and plays with her sleeve.

"How did you get over it?" she asks, eyes on the TV.

"That's the thing," I reply. "I'm not sure I have."

Again, she sighs, pulls her jean-clad feet on the couch and turns to look at me. "But you will."

"How can you be sure?"

"You will," she repeats with the slightest of smiles. "Something about you."

"What about you?" I ask, observing the way she starts twiddling with her red earrings, searching for something to do with her fingers.

"What about me?"

"What, uh—can I ask what happened to you? Edward never elaborated and I didn't want to push. Were you, you know, a victim?"

"Victim." With vehemence I'm not used to seeing her express, Rosalie says, "I hate that word. _Victim_. Like it was out of my control to change my life. Like I was weak by default." She grimaces. "Before you start to idealize me or what I've been though, there's something you should know."

"Okay."

"I'm not like you."

I wince. "Eric told me that before he shot himself."

Her face softens. "I didn't mean to bring back memories. But—it's the truth. You were innocent in what happened to you. You have no blame. Even if you feel guilty, you didn't actually provoke that guy to do any harm to you. You didn't do anything to deserve what happened."

"I was weak. I was awkward. I was different. That was enough to provoke him."

"But you didn't do it on purpose. You didn't deserve what happened."

"And you did?"

"I was in five families in the course of twelve years," she replies, as if that answered my question.

"_Five_ families?"

"Javier and Maria Bermúdez, the first family who took me in. I was four. Three years later, Frances and Paul Taylor, then when I was nine, the Wrights, my favorite family. After them, Ella Irwin, and finally, Natalie and David Marsh."

"Holy shit." I blink at her. "I mean, why couldn't you stay with one family?"

She shrugs and draws her thumb and forefinger across the edge of her sleeve. "I was out of luck, I guess. Edward hit the jackpot." There's longing in her voice, but instead of sounding jealous, she sounds sad. "Money, divorce, illness. Sometimes the money they got for me wasn't worth the bother of paying attention to me. Twice it was my fault."

"But you were just a kid."

"Ah, I know that look," she says, and with every piece of information she shares, her confidence grows. "I assure you, I _was_ at fault. I started smoking and drinking and got involved in illegal activities so that Ella Irwin would put me back in the orphanage."

"What did she do?"

"Treated me like a project," she says. "Like charity. Oh, look at me, I'm so good, I'm so precious, I took that little urchin and I'm gonna make her life all perfect! Drove me mad. I've found it's harder to get used to the family you live with the prouder they are of what they're doing. And because they can back off from their decision, when things get tough, some of them will. Nothing good can come out of adoption if the family wants to look good in the society's eyes and doesn't actually care."

"That sounds terrible."

"It wasn't all bad." She smiles. "Most of them meant well. It just didn't turn out that way."

"But you said—you provoked them. How? Do you mean—smoking and drinking and stuff?"

She intertwines her fingers and averts her gaze. "Not only. But yes. I wish I could sugar-coat what I've done because you're kind of pure, you know? Has anyone told you that?"

"Ugh. Not you, too."

"Pardon?"

"Just, ugh. Let's skip this part. Continue, please. "

She looks at me, curious, but doesn't comment. "I was just—I got sexually active quite early."

"Jesus, is that an adoption thing?"

She frowns. "Pardon?"

"Never mind."

"It's a freedom thing, I think. Adult thing. I tried so hard to prove to myself I'm an adult I started doing all the things I thought adults did. Of course, I only achieved the opposite. Behaving like I could handle drinking and smoking and sex in no way proved that I could actually handle those things. Ella Irwin thought I was depressed, and I didn't talk much, so they put me on anti-depressants. Heavy stuff. I don't think I cared at that point. I was never depressed, just messed up. Didn't know how to get close to people. Artificial proximity, sure, physical proximity. But never anything like what's Edward found with you. Nothing like that."

I don't know what to say, so I don't.

"I don't seem like what I'm describing, do I? Is that what you're thinking?"

"I'm thinking I don't blame you for anything you've put yourself through. I can't imagine being in your shoes, so I can't judge."

She lets out a light laugh, and suddenly, it's like she's twelve. "Oh, Bella."

"What?"

"No wonder Edward is so awed by you. You're reacting exactly like he told me you would. Let me tell you, Edward was not that pleased by my choices."

"You can just not answer me, but—what happened with your last family?"

She winces.

"It's okay if you don't—"

"I'm fine," she replies and pauses before speaking. "Have you ever noticed that there's always someone who expresses surprise when a person who is utterly goody-goody turns out to be the biggest asshole?"

"You mean, when the most God-fearing man turns out to be a pedophile or something?"

She halts, looking me straight in the eye, and for a fraction of a second, I see fear, but it's lost when she lets out a nervous laugh. "_Exactly_," she says. "Exactly. In literature, just like in real life, there's always someone to say they weren't expecting it because they seemed so goody-goody. Well, you know what? No man is explicitly goody-goody unless they have to make up for something in their life. Nobody is doing the bad _in spite of_ the good—people do good to _make up for_ the bad. When something is too good to be true? It probably is."

"I'm not sure I want to agree."

"That's what makes you so good," she says. "David Marsh was exactly that kind of man. Too good to be true. I didn't realize until it was too late."

"What did he do?"

"That God-fearing pedophile comparison you just made? Top notch."

I withdraw so violently Edward's face falls on the back of the couch. When he doesn't wake up, I shift myself so that he'd be comfortable.

"I'm so sorry." I don't know what else to say.

Rosalie gives me a sad smile. "I was just trying to find my file from the downloads folder, and when I couldn't, I ventured elsewhere. I found, oh God. I wasn't supposed to use his computer but the one in the living room wasn't working, and that's how he found me, gaping at his collection of photos and videos. Of minors."

"Shit."

She chuckles. "Indeed."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing nice," she says, shrugging. "I don't know how, but he knew about the illegal things I was involved in. Those were his cards, and they were powerful, or so I believed. I grew to fear him. I think the psychological terror affected me more than the times he—ah."

"Did he…"

She tilts her head on the side, eyeing me, and if I'm supposed to read the answer from her body language, I fail miserably. She seems to be referring to her size (in the style of, 'do you really think I'd let anyone push me around like that?'), but then she also seems to have that look in her eye, kind of 'do you really think I'd be in this situation if he hadn't?'

But I don't ask her to clarify.

"There were times when he was less intrusive physically but no less demeaning. He beat me up pretty bad a few times."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"How did he get away with it?"

"I got into fights of my own. Bruises were nothing uncommon."

"How did you escape?"

"That last time he beat me up? I think he started to get some sort of sick pleasure from having power over me, and he went too far. I woke up at the hospital. He, of course, told them some unlikely story of a street fight."

"And they believed him?"

"People believe remarkable things when there's a powerful man saying them," she replies. "He's a lawyer. He knows how to make people play by his rules, even if they are unaware of it."

"That woman who is helping you, does she know who he is and what he did?"

"That's the initial reason she helped me. She hates him."

"That is… how did you… wow."

She stays silent, and we both watch Phil phone a woman saying he can't find Doug. It's another world. Rosalie shifts.

"Do you still think I was worth saving now that you know my story?"

"Do you like chocolate?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you like chocolate?"

She scowls. "Of course I do."

"Then yes. You were," I reply. "You are."

"I quit all of it, you know," she says, as if she owes me an explanation. "That was the deal I made with Diana. I might've never gotten out of those habits and the people I was surrounded by if it wasn't for her. I owe her. I'm going to start taking classes again in the fall, and I'll finish high school. Diana is a psychologist, and I think—I think I want to be one, too. See?"

"See what?"

"I'm one of them. I want to do good because I've made awful decisions in my life. I'm not like you."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because you are unlike anyone I've ever met. You don't do good because you've got something to make up for, you do good because good people deserve good things to happen to them."

"But you're good, too, whatever the "good" is we're talking about. I can't see why you believe you somehow caused what happened to you. You didn't."

"You donated an insane amount to a rape center," she replies, still twiddling with her sleeves. "I read about it."

"But I didn't put down my name."

"Someone recognized you."

"And they're discussing it?"

"More than you realize," she answers. "Don't you see? You're the hero—"

"Ugh. Please don't. I am no more a hero than I am a bald eagle. So maybe I've idealized what you've been through, but that doesn't diminish how strong you've had to be to heal and get on with your life. And don't do the same to me."

"Do you know how few people would've actually—"

"Stop it. I don't, and it doesn't matter because I am not other people. Don't you see? If the circumstances had been different, I could've easily taken the route you did. If you were me, maybe you'd find my circumstances to be easier to cope with than I do at the moment. But I'm not you, and you're not me, and you can't idealize my decisions or compare them to yours. Maybe you would've had a far bigger impact on Eric than I did, and maybe I would've handled your situation far worse than you have. You don't know. So can we not idealize each other, deal?"

She takes a breath. "I still think you're better than me."

"I'm not. You better get used to that before you put me in a situation where I have to live up to some sort of an ideal. I'm not a saint."

Rosalie eyes me, half-smiling, and shrugs. After watching—but not really—the screen for a few minutes, she turns to me. "On a brighter note, that surgery I told you about, it went better than expected," she says, and she's got that wonder in her eyes I saw on New Year's Eve.

"When? You never told me."

"The same week you got shot."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah," she says. "You should've heard the voice mails Edward sent me."

"Fuck. I can't imagine what that week must've been like for him."

"Well, he didn't know I went under surgery, he just couldn't get hold of me."

"Does he know now?"

"Yeah. I told him when I got out. He got angry."

"I'm not surprised."

"You're all he ever talks about," she says. "In case you didn't know. He's had girlfriends before, sure, but I never knew much about them except that they existed."

I think my heart expands and explodes in my chest.

"That is… good to know."

Rosalie smiles, and the things she told me didn't diminish the sweetness and sincerity of it. In fact, while I'll have to think of her more like a human being and less like a warrior, I kind of like it that she has grown to be so open and real about it.

"So you're healing well?"

"Better than my doctor predicted," she says, grinning. "I feel much better, too."

"It shows."

She settles against the hand rest. "Can we watch some tear jerker next? I can't remember the last time I cried."

"Seriously? That can be fixed. All I ever do lately is cry. It's starting to piss me off, to be honest."

She laughs.

After I've yelled myself empty at Dr. Hunter on Friday morning, Edward, Rose, Emmett and couple of their friends go bowling, which is to say that I sit on a couch and watch them. Angela and Ben are here, and so is Tanya and a couple of Edward's (Emmett's?) friends from school whom I've only seen in the hallways. Laurent is there, too, and I think Edward is a bit wary of him. Everyone keeps me company when others play. Their curiosity about what happened is a bit overwhelming, but after replying to the same questions and hearing the same jokes all over again, it tires me.

When most of them watch Rosalie kick ass in the bowling lane, Angela silently sits beside me. We observe them.

"I know he's your brother and all, but he's killing Tanya. Have you talked to him at all?"

About what, exactly?

I observe the insides of my cup. "No, I haven't."

She sighs. "Could you?"

I notice Tanya glancing at my brother, dejected-looking yet hopeful, keeping herself away from the circle as she fiddles with her phone. I have no clue what Angela is talking about, but after a minute or two of watching Tanya's efforts to get Emmett's attention and my brother's careful avoidance of her, it's clear something is up.

"Is he avoiding her at school, too?" I ask, no clue if it's the right thing to ask. I could easily ask her, but I prefer not to in case she doesn't want to deliver the news herself.

"Does he ever," she says, pulling a leg under herself. "Ever since they slept together at that party, he's just been—"

Jesus Christ.

"Emmett!"

"Yeah?"

"Can you help me get to the bathroom?"

"Why?"

"I need to powder my nose."

They laugh.

"I can—" Angela starts, but I give her a look and she closes her mouth. "Right."

Emmett departs from the crowd, frowns at the sight of Angela sitting right beside me, but helps me to the other side of the room, and when we're through a fire-proof door, I release my grip on his forearm and turn to him.

"You fucking hypocrite!"

He steps back, confused. "Uh, what?"

"You're a hypocrite! You do not get to fucking tell me my perception is all flowery when yours is clouded for a reason!"

"The hell are you talking about?"

"You and Tanya! Now, I don't give a fuck what you're doing or who you're doing it with, but don't you dare tell me your judgment is right and mine is wrong when you have personal issues clouding your vision!"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Why don't you fix that then."

Emmett sighs, slumps against the wall and drags a hand across his face.

"I was drunk."

"What else is new."

"We had sex."

"So?"

"She wanted more. I didn't. I didn't know how to tell her, so I… made it look like I'm playing the field."

"And how does that make her a bitch?"

"She's so desperate to be on your good side and suck up to you, how can you not see that?"

"So maybe she's insecure like I was in middle school! I repeat, how does that make her a bitch?"

"Why are you yelling?"

I take a breath and lean against the wall.

"I can't believe we're talking about this." Emmett groans. "It was a mistake, alright. A fucking mistake. So maybe there's someone else, but I might've fucked that up as well."

"Who?" I ask. "Wait! Never mind. You're not drunk enough for this conversation and it's none of my business. Can you just—just apologize to Tanya or something. Don't make her feel used."

"I think she used me as much as I used her."

"Inconsequential." I sigh as I watch him hunch. "I'm trying not to judge and shit, but if you make a mess, please don't hide your head in the sand, okay? If you screw up, go clean up on the receiving end of your shit. Please."

He looks at me, eyes so similar to mom's blue ones it's uncanny, and clenches his jaw. "What are you, my mother?"

I press my lips together. "Someone has to be."

"You know fuck about life, Bella." He lifts his chin, and his eyes are burning. "You live in your flowery little world with the goody-goody people who never make mistakes—"

"Fuck you!"

"And you know why people bullied you in middle school? You can be so fucking patronizing! Thinking you know everything and acting all—"

"Stop it!" I pant. "Please." If I weren't two steps away from the bathroom I'd vomit all over my brother. It's a single toilet, and Emmett enters after me.

"Fuck," he mutters. "I didn't mean—fuck." He crouches, grimacing when I retch and looking sufficiently horrified. "You have to know I didn't—I'm sorry! Fuck, I'm sorry."

Twice within a week, because I seem to be having some sort of a panic attack, I end up in the Emergency Room. Jasper takes us. The same woman who took care of me last time (Miss Flint) is there, and as she leaves to find someone, Emmett sits anxiously beside me in a very uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. It's alarmingly purple. He sighs and hunches.

"Ah, fuck," he says. "I shouldn't have. I don't know what I wanted to achieve. I'm sorry."

I drink water and stare at him.

"I just want dad home, you know?" And when he lifts his face, looking at me, I see all the heartbreak and confusion that I feel. "Life is so fucked up right now," he whispers. "I'm ready for dad to be home."

I reach out to squeeze his hand, just for a second. Emmett continues to look at me with that jarring expression, and after a long pause, I dare to ask, "Do you really think I got bullied because I was patronizing?"

"No," he says, sighing.

"Those words came from somewhere."

"I didn't mean it. I just knew how to hurt you." He rests elbows on his knees and smiles. It's a little one, one filled with regret, but it reaches his eyes. "Do you know, Bella, why you look like two different people on Eric's videos? The one he's interacting with and the one who got bullied?"

"Why?"

"Because that lively girl he saw when there was no one else around—that was you."

He presses his lips together, almost as if he were trying to hold back tears, and sniffs once before letting out a shaky chuckle. He leans closer. "Oh, God, Bella. How did we get to this point?"

Shortly thereafter, Edward and Rosalie arrive. After noticing Rosalie's eyes on him, a funny thing happens: my brother, the guy who has blushed once during his lifetime, reddens, wipes his nose against his sleeve and squeezes my hand. He avoids their eyes. "I'll be over at the waiting room, okay? Edward knows this stuff."

Rosalie leaves after him.

Edward sits and starts running his hands through my hair. "Déjà vu, huh," he says, a sad smile on his lips. "How do you feel?"

"Better."

"What did they tell you?"

"Miss Flint said they needed to check if I had BTSD or PDST or—I don't know. Something like that."

"PTSD?" he asks without a hint of a smile.

"Maybe."

His face twists, and when Miss Flint returns, Edward catches David, the guy he knows, and asks questions I couldn't dream of repeating. PTSD, it turns out, is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, something I think I've heard about; but also something I associate with war veterans. I'm pretty sure I don't have it, but I patiently answer their questions. They ask about anxiety and reliving the events and I'm kind of pissed they're always asking me about what happened, but after saying exactly that, it turns out not wanting to relive the event(s) is one of the symptoms. That pisses me off, too, because symptom or not—who in their right mind would want to relive a traumatic event? It's not like normal people go all, 'Aw, yay, remember that time we buried our mother? Was that an awesome day or what.'

It doesn't happen, so by that criteria we should all have PTSD of some form or another.

Edward, who had so far sat beside me, holding my hand, pulls me into a hug when they say I don't have it. Nevertheless, I am 'likely' to develop it and should continue seeing Dr. Hunter and take it easy for a couple of months.

They're forgetting that I move at half an inch per hour. Taking it easy shouldn't be a problem.

Regardless of my psychological health, they want to wait for results for blood work, so I lie down and watch Edward share the news with Emmett and Rosalie.

I can't hear what they're saying because of beeping and people rustling about, but from their gestures and expressions, I conclude that Emmett and Edward are having an argument. Rosalie is trying to split them. When she's unsuccessful, she grabs on to Emmett's shoulders, pulls him down and kisses him, full on the mouth. I gape. Edward gapes. People in the waiting room—those I can see—gape. I don't know what kind of reaction she was going for, but when she pulls back, continuing to talk as if nothing happened, Edward and Emmett gape at her.

If stopping their argument is what she was going for, she achieved it.

Driving home from the ER, there's a somewhat tense silence in the back seat until Rosalie growls. "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Can you get over it already?"

I start laughing, and Edward's mouth tugs into a smile.

"But I didn't say anything!" Emmett defends himself, and I wish I could see him because he sounds like a ten year old.

"_Exactly_," Rosalie replies. "You sound so much better on the internet. I didn't remember you being such a wuss in real life."

There's silence in the back seat as Edward and I make eye contact, look in their direction, and share another glance.

"What?!" we ask simultaneously.

"We talk. On Facebook. On Skype. You know, normal stuff," Rosalie says like she's talking about the weather. "But, no offence, Bella, but like most people, your brother is a lot braver on the internet. He wouldn't even pretend to _know me_ when we were bowling. Seriously."

"None taken," I reply, still slightly blown away by this new knowledge. No words follow for a while before Rose huffs a chuckle.

"Jesus Christ, you'd think I asked you to marry—"

Her voice is muffled, and when Edward and I look at the backseat, we see that Emmett has shut her up. With his mouth. I lock eyes with Edward and burst out laughing. Edward joins me.

"Much better," Rosalie says, clearly smiling. "Now that we know that we have no chemistry whatsoever, we can go back to being friends."

"Wait!" I half-yell, turning on the light. "I want to see Emmett's face."

"No _chemistry_," he says, voice low, watching Rosalie before shoving his palm in my face with a very clear intention. I snicker and turn off the light.

"Today is turning out to be rather interesting," I tell Edward, who intertwines his fingers with mine and kisses the back of my hand. He's smiling.

"Indeed," he says, and turns his head. "Emmett, I need to have a talk with you."

He grunts. Rosalie and I are laughing. I'm positive Emmett had this talk with Edward, which is why he can't complain when Edward wants to do the same.

It is Saturday evening, a week after John Newton's suicide by my bed, when Edward wakes me up with a kiss. I stare at him for a few silent seconds, but then he nuzzles my ear. "I'm going to have a brother," he whispers, and when he pulls back, I can see him beaming. He's clothed. I blink at him.

"What?"

"Can you believe it?"

A smile starts to stretch on my lips as I realize maybe I've been too afraid for him, maybe this really is what he needs. He seems thrilled, and I'm happy that he is.

"Wow."

"Mom is three months along," he continues in a rush. "She wanted to be sure she didn't miscarry, but everything seems to be fine. She's due just after your birthday."

"And you're happy about this?"

"It's pretty cool," he replies, half-shrugging.

"You are totally trying to play it cool right now," I accuse, pulling him to lie next to me. He laughs and nods against my ear.

"Busted, huh?"

I'm thrilled, not only because Edward is taking this incredibly well, but because he's genuinely excited about something like this. I can honestly admit that if dad announced his girlfriend is pregnant, it might take a while for that to sink in before I reach a point where I'm as happy as Edward seems to be at the moment.

: :

_Saturday, the 10__th__ of April  
6:45 PM. Dad is making pasta. I'm lying on my single bed surrounded by a couple of boxes. I share a room with Emmett, and he is literally breathing down my neck as I write this. Get a life, will you? (Ugh, he lay down beside me, and he's munching a peanut butter jelly sandwich REALLY LOUDLY.)_

_luv u 2 sis._

_Fucking illiterate brother stealing my fucking pen._

The two weeks before dad's arrival vanish like fart in the wind. I have packed all my life in two boxes, two bags and a back bag. Edward helps me (he hides his reluctance very badly), and it's Friday afternoon when he sits beside me on the bed I haven't slept in since John Newton's suicide, takes my hand and looks at me, letting out a slow breath. I sigh along. He starts drawing patterns on my palm, and I don't need him to tell me that he doesn't want me to leave.

(Am I being cheesy enough for you to get lost, Emmett? 'cause I can cheesy it up a notch. Wait, wait, let me start describing making out with him!)

(Haha, Emmett grunted, lay on his back and told me to "tell him if something happens." Dream on!)

I could tell Edward to come with me, I could convince dad to take him in, but it will solve nothing in the long run. Esme and Carlisle will not cease to be his parents if he flees. I think he'll have to shout it out. Just like he can't fix my self-esteem, I can't fix his relationship with his parents. I wish I could, but I can't.

As we continue to sit and wait for dad to return, he pulls my legs over his.

"Tell me something I don't know," he says.

"Morgan Freeman had his first on-screen kiss when he was sixty three years old."

Edward laughs. "Definitely didn't know that. But I meant—about yourself. Something I don't know about you."

"I got my first job to be able to see stand-up."

"Oh, yeah? That's pretty decent."

"What's decent is the escapism it offered," I reply. "Your turn."

"North Cedar High is the third high school and eighth school I've been to."

"Bullshit."

"Not at all."

"But—why?"

"At first mom and dad weren't happy with the districts we were in, so we moved. When they didn't like this or that teacher, they pulled me out of a school and into another one." He shrugs. "Actually, I've been to six, so it's not that bad. One school changed its name twice. When a school has a bad rep, apparently the thing to do is to change the name."

"I didn't know that," I reply. "So, third high school, huh? How do you like it?"

"I have not once been bored by company, that's for sure."

"Ooh, should your girlfriend take credit?"

"Absolutely."

"Fuck yeah."

He laughs. "Okay, something else," he tells me.

"I am more alike to my dad than I ever care to admit. I'm not allergic to anything and I have never had the flu or the cold. When you and I slept next to each other I used to steal kisses from you sometimes. I'm probably trying out for Juilliard, not sure yet, and I already—"

"Wait, wait, rewind," he says, and his smile is wicked but vulnerable, too. "You used to _kiss me_ when I was _asleep_?"

I hang my head, groaning.

"Screw facts," Edward says, eyes twinkling when he makes me look at him and sit in his lap. "So, tell me more about that."

"Screw you."

"I think it's a little soon for that," he says, and I laugh against his chest, but he leans closer, breathing in my ear and running his hand up and down my stomach. He whispers, "When did you used to kiss me?"

"Edward."

"Tell me."

"Ugh," I reply, sighing. I'm red, and don't I know it. "The first time it happened was when my mom died and we fell asleep in the living room. You just, you were so sweet and attentive and kind and handsome and I just wanted to feel how it felt. I'm sorry."

His warm breath fills my ear. "Thank fuck I'm not alone in this relationship."

"Why would you think that? I am the model clingy girlfriend."

He huffs a laugh, but holds his mouth close to my ear. He whispers, "I'd prefer you were clingier."

"You can't be serious."

"I feel very needy compared to you," he mutters. "You seem so okay not touching me but I am so not okay not touching you."

"True linguistic talent, man."

He laughs.

"So why didn't you wake me up? Did I react? You're creating intrigue here."

"Smug bastard. I wish I'd never said anything."

"You are not backing away now."

And I realize, it's not about when or how much I kissed him when he was asleep, it's about me initiating something in a relationship where he feels he's coming on to me too strong. He's still holding himself back, and I don't want that.

"That time you got drunk with Emmett and Jasper."

"Ah, so something did happen."

"Not really. Just a kiss after you fell asleep."

"And you didn't want me to be awake for it?"

"You should've seen how drunk you were."

The tips of his ears redden, but he smiles.

"There's one thing, though."

"What?"

"What was that rant about a nest?"

Wide eyed, Edward gapes at me. "A nest?"

I grin. "I knew it! I knew there was a story behind it. So, what is it? Why did you keep pointing at my breasts, asking to make a nest?"

He clears his throat. "Was I?"

"Mhmm."

"It's nothing."

"Oh, no, no, no! You don't get to have that reaction and not tell me. I told you my embarrassing story, you tell me yours. It's only fair."

Edward grunts or groans or huffs, or something in the middle. He blows air in my ear. It tickles, and I laugh.

"It's… a poem," he mutters. "A stupid one. You wouldn't like it."

"Did you write it?"

Again, warm air fills my ear. "Yes," he admits.

"For, like, in general, or, you know, for me? I guess it doesn't matter, I just—"

"For you," he mutters, and I think I see a smile when I turn my head, but it's vulnerable. I have grown enough to recognize a moment that matters to him; a moment when I am no longer able to hide behind my sarcasm and jokes, and so I lean closer to his ear and blow air in it.

"Will you ever let me read it?" I whisper.

He shivers and tightens his grip on my waist. "Jesus."

"What about him?"

"I don't think you realize…" He doesn't end his sentence, but the tone of his voice suggests his trail of thought, and I'm reminded of how I once read that women tend to underestimate men's desire, and to test it out, I pull him into a kiss. He's tender but filled with so much desire, and soon he's holding me as I lie on the bed. I laugh when our noses bump against each other. That seems to remind him of what we're doing and he lies on his back beside me, panting.

"No, no. I mean, your dad will be here." He gives me a sheepish smile. I return it.

"That must be one hell of a poem if that's the reaction you have even thinking of it."

He lets out huffs of silent laughter against my neck and throws a hand over me, and even when he gets all snuggly, I get the vibe that we shouldn't continue what I started.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy with the pace we're going with?" I ask quietly. "Do you need us to go faster?"

He turns on his side, resting his head on his palm so that he can look down at my face. He smiles, all twinkly eyes and affection. "I've never been happier," he says, not clarifying anything about the pace. "The real question is—do you need us to go slower?"

"I've never been happier," I repeat, and his smile, if it's possible, gets gentler. I brush hair from his forehead. "I love it that you let me initiate so much. I don't know if that's something to admit, but I thought I'd just lay that out there."

"Never hesitate to discuss anything," he says, drawing me closer. He licks his lips as we stare at each other, my face semi-amused but his so earnest, and then he barely touches his lips with mine and whispers, "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever met."

I know it's a calculated decision on his part, to say those exact words at that exact moment.

He retreats, just enough to be able to observe me, but I pull his face back and whisper in his ear, "I believe you."

He lets out a little, maniac-sounding laugh when he crushes me into a hug and rolls us over twice so that we end up squishing all the pillows. Spring rain is beating against the windows, and I think I hear dad's voice upstairs, but Edward's reaction makes me so deliriously happy I give him a hickey. He's still grinning after I'm done, but after a few seconds, his face sobers.

"I'm going to miss you," he whispers. "God, am I going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss waking you up at ungodly hours," I return light-heartedly. He laughs, buries his face in my neck and holds me close. I let myself feel the thump, thump of his heart, to cherish the moment, and whisper, "I left you a little gift under your pillow."

He pulls back. "You're making me feel like a horrible boyfriend. You always get me the coolest things."

"Don't feel bad," I reply. "You should know by now that I'm the one wearing pants in this relationship."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks before licking my face. I start rubbing my cheek, exaggerating my disgust, and he laughs. "Your boyfriend would like to borrow those pants every once in a while."

"Is that so?"

"Mhmm."

The actual moment when all the boxes and bags are in Al's old car and I'm done thanking Carlisle and Esme for everything they've done—with all their flaws, I can't pretend they haven't helped me a lot—and dad is still drowning them in his gratitude, Edward and I stand for a moment, arms on the sides before he pulls me into a crushing hug. I hold on. I sniff his sweater and feel uncomfortable tightness in my throat.

"This is not goodbye," I whisper, and I feel his nod.

"Promise me we won't change," he whispers back, clutching my sweatshirt. "Ever."

"We can't change," I reply. "It's comes too easily."

He waves before shoving hands in his pockets. Dad closes the front door behind us. It's pouring. "You alright, kiddo?"

"Yup," I answer, gripping his forearm as we step into the rain.

: :

_Sunday, the 23__rd__ of May  
5:24 AM. Emmett is asleep, praise Sweet Baby Jesus. _

One of the things I've been most worried about is whether or not I'll manage to stay the same after crawling through all this shit. Turns out, there's a better way to remove the stink than Mr. Proper, and I use it efficiently: shouting. I shout myself empty and I shout myself sad. I shout about Eric and I shout about my mom and I even shout about the future that awaits me. For a while, I feel like I'm running on perpetuum mobile and I will never run out of things to yell about, until one Friday afternoon two weeks ago, I enter Dr. Hunter's office and we—

We talk.

It's amazing.

I talk about my plans with the campaign I got involved with through Puma Athlete's Guild. I talk about my relationship with Edward and the things he's taught me. I talk about my dad, Emmett, and how Eric's actions have changed mine. I talk about how life has changed, if only a day at a time.

It's surprisingly normal, and Dr. Hunter seems surprised, too. I've been seeing him not twice but three times a week for two months (the fact that I had many symptoms of PTSD changed our plans), and not once have I not argued or yelled at him about something I think he's misconstrued. I've accused him of misunderstanding me and misinterpreting my words and tearing apart actions that I don't feel deserve to be analyzed. I've accused him of having the attitude of a psychologist. (Duh.)

I talk about me defying him with my words, and he listens. God, he's a great listener, and he listens well and with interest. He is, truly, one of the best on his field, and I hear that he has line-ups and his time is getting more expensive, but he doesn't let it show and continues to be a slightly weird, sandal-wearing unsmiling psychologist. He is exactly what I have needed, and I can recognize that now.

I've been trying to catch up with so much I've missed. A month is a long time to miss school. My perfect GPA crumbles, I barely manage a D in Spanish and C in AP History (this deserves a book of its own), and even those are a stretch of imagination (read: the teachers' kindness).

Because of what Emmett and Edward have told me about the way (they think) my perception differs from the "real" world, I observe and analyze the students around me and attempt to catch plot holes in my perception. I do, too. Emmett apologizes to Tanya, and I continue to communicate with her, but I can see how her attitude toward me is different from her attitude toward everyone else. She's not a bitch, though. I think, as it often happens, the truth lies somewhere in between.

Lauren chose abortion and gets shit talked about her, and I help her however I can, even if the only help I can provide is to be a big ear for her. It turns out it's just what she needs, and when she has cried out her sorrows, she, you know, moves on. It's what you do. I have moments when I catch myself observing the students around me with a new eye that is not necessarily harsher, just—cleaner. Seeing the world and the people in it for what they are, it turns out, doesn't mean that I end up hating everything and everyone. I can reconsider how I've previously perceived something, but I can also add my own touch of perception, my own preference of intent, and live with it. Nobody, after all, sees the world for what it really is. Nobody.

Not even you, Emmett.

I still, no doubt, act like a doofus around my friends, but I sometimes catch Edward watching me, concerned, when I get too quiet. I catch my friends, too, watching me, but whatever differences they spot they either ignore or put down to post traumatic stress.

The rumor that I have PTSD spreads like wildfire, but when I don't act like it (in school), people lose interest and the rumor dies out. It too bad because it's the only decent rumor I've heard about myself that is almost right. Clearly, it wasn't started by Alice. It too close to truth to be of any interest to her.

My first weeks back at school are a bit insane. Even more so than before do people approach me in the hallways, thinking I have some mysterious knowledge about what drove John Newton to do what he did. Or how and why I had the evidence to stop his son, or if I knew all of it all along. Did Michael Newton kill himself out of guilt? I wish he had.

But I don't think he did.

By taking his life, Michael Newton prevented me from having closure. Is it the kind of closure that I wanted to have? Would I have wanted to (or been able to) sit in a courtroom watching him justify and explain and find excuses for what he did?

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Life is weird.

The media discusses the events for weeks, but Thomas Kell points out something interesting in an interview. After analyzing the DVD that I gave them, someone notices a scene where, in the far corner of the screen, Shawn Holstein takes off his mask and says, "I'm not doing this." It's barely audible. He disappears from the screen, and the thing is, that is the only video where you can identify him. He did hang around with Newton and Jared at school, but even thinking about the situations in the cafeteria, I can't recall a single situation where it had been him picking on anyone, not even me.

Maybe he hung around because Newton threatened him, maybe he thought his ties to Newton were too strong to tell on him, and maybe it doesn't matter much to the world because he's dead and that's the tragedy of it, but I know. I know that this matters to his family. There's a difference between raising a boy who became a rapist, and raising a boy who chose the wrong crowd to hang out with and found himself incapable of leaving. Eric wasn't in a situation to judge who had done what and to which extent, he was a boy cornered and stretched beyond his limits. He only wanted the pain to end.

I'm confused to understand that my return, the person people think I am, is exciting to many students. Not only do they think I have the answers, they seek out my company, and that is a strange experience. On more painful days, I go to school with my walker and while there are groups who make fun of me, there are more people who tell those groups to piss off, among them my brother and Edward.

I have not been careful enough with my back. I want to exercise too much too soon with too much intensity, and as much as it helps me, it also backfires often. Edward and dad and Emmett hold me back when I'm about to hurt myself, and my physical therapist—now a fifty year old woman named Sophie Lebedeva—patiently assures me that I am doing incredibly well and that I've gained speed and stamina and flexibility, all of which is true.

I haven't taken my walker to school for three weeks, and sometimes I can walk an entire day without holding on to anyone. I can jog short distances, which is thrilling beyond belief, and I've never felt less capable of containing my love for the beauty that is the human anatomy than the first time I'm able to go for a ten-minute jog at five AM. I still have to be careful lifting weights, but to be able to run like that again—it feels like a miracle.

Then there's Alice & Co.

Remarkable, when you think about it, that a girl so desperate to fit into a certain crowd acts no different when said crowd parts company. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I expected something in her to change and reconsider her priorities and the reason she's grown to be who she is. Wouldn't that be wonderful? The antagonist is supposed to learn and change and recognize her mistakes.

But nope. Same comments, same attitude, same ways of integrating into—who she considers—the "in" crowd.

It's sad.

When I first return, she's actively fighting against the fact that most students know me, either by name or by face, and I still don't know where it's coming from. On Friday, the 9th of April, when I've been back for two weeks, struggling with the overwhelming amount of people who seek answers I cannot give them, I corner her because her passive-aggressive comments about the person she thinks I am and my habits and style—oh, yes, the moment I'm able to put ridiculous pantyhose on, I'm doing it—are starting to tire me. She's spreading little tales about my hygiene and loser life. It's exactly like middle school, except there's a focus to her groups' behavior, and it's me.

In my defense, I don't yell. I nicely ask her to step aside with me. She looks at me, defiant but curious, and agrees. I lean against the window sill and wait until she's close enough.

"What's your problem?" I ask, more gently than you'd assume from my words. I feel confrontational—but then again, when am I not?

"I have no problem."

"Clearly, there is a problem. Let's solve it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Did playing dumb earn your brownie points in your last school? You might not approve of my clothing, but I'm not stupid. Why are you singling me out?"

"I'm not—"

"Oh, please. All those little stories about what I loner I am? You're singling me out. And by doing that, you must feel threatened by me on some level. Because, yeah, I took shit from girls in middle school, too. But nobody focused on me. I was just a passing weakness to be bullied. You, though? You focus on me. Why? Why are you so desperate to prove I'm lower than you?"

"I do not feel threatened by you."

"Sure.

"I don't!"

"Whatever you say. But think about it, if that were true, you wouldn't have bothered. But you did. You _do_. My question is, why? What do you think I did to you?"

She lifts her chin but remains silent.

"Did you help Newton set my house on fire?"

Taken aback, she blinks at me. "What?"

"I know you tore apart my room. Did you do it alone or were you helping Newton?"

"What?" She pales, and grips the straps of her shiny purse. "I've never—"

"Bullshit. You're the only one whose capital A looks exactly like her capital R. It was you. Were you alone?"

She pales.

"Don't worry, I'm the only one who knows."

"You have no proof."

"You're right," I say. "Because Newton burnt my home to the ground. Were you there, too? Cheering him on?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"And you do? Oh, please. Tell me more about what happened that night."

She observes me, eyes squinted, and lets out a huff. "You don't deserve it," she whispers, and her words have sharp edges.

"What? The attention? You think I enjoy this? You can have it."

"And you don't even care that you have it! You did nothing to get popular, _nothing_."

I can't help but laugh, because Christ, she's melodramatic to the point of deserving her own reality show. How do people like her even _exist_? This girl has watched too much TV, seriously.

"What kind of a world are you living in? I'm not popular. Students tend to recognize the people they see in the media. That's it."

Her breath is loud and sharp when she pants, and I'd be afraid she wanted to push me (she looks like she's preparing to fight) if I didn't know she would get in serious trouble for causing me any physical harm. But her face clears, and her expression changes; she's looks haughty and determined. It's a bit daunting.

"You don't know who Edward is," she whispers.

"I think I'd have noticed by now if he were a part of the Italian Mafia, but go ahead. Amuse me."

"He's a ladies' man."

"You're damn right. I am a lady, he's my man. Anything else?"

"You don't understand," she says. "He goes through women like he goes through socks. I've been to summer camp with him."

"Then I am happy to be his sock for a while. You went to summer camp with him _twice_, Alice, get your facts straight. So he had two different girlfriends two consecutive years. Serial monogamist like the rest of us." I stretch my back. It's aching, and I'm exhausted from not understanding this girl _at all_. "Seriously, Alice, what are you trying to achieve? Why do you hate me? Is it really Edward? Or my appearance? What do you _want_? Just tell me."

She huffs, twice, takes out her shiny iPhone five hundred, makes a bit of an eye-roll-y expression, and leaves me. A bit anticlimactic, if you ask me.

I don't hear any tales about my hygiene or supposed solitude after that, and I assume it's because she knows I know about my room. Dad still has the picture with her handwriting, and I know I could tell on her and maybe even prove her involvement, but it's enough to know she actually did it.

On the way home, I ask Edward about his previous girlfriends, and we talk about them. There's nothing dramatic. Maybe I should want him to talk shit about them, bitches this and bitches that and they were both ugly and awful, but Edward doesn't do that. He tells me when and how he met them and why they didn't work out, that he'd probably talk to them on the street if he were to meet them. It gives me hope. If the wonder that is our relationship frizzles out and we go back to being friends, maybe a girl in the future will hear about me, not about that weirdo he once dated, but that I was good to him and good with him and that we took care of each other.

Emmett and Rosalie remain to be friends, but they talk on Skype often. I don't know what their deal is. Neither does Edward.

I get involved with a daunting campaign. Zachary North calls me (Emmett might or might not have taken the call and pretended they were talking to a furniture company) to ask if he had my permission to give my contacts to another company. I don't even know why he had to ask. An hour later, I get a call from a woman named Eva G. Burgess who is starting a campaign in the summer called Strong Contemporary Women, and wants me to be the face of their campaign.

_The_ face, not just a face. The face they'd plaster everywhere promoting the campaign.

She says that the moment the direction of their campaign became clear to her, she specifically asked for me, and that is intimidating. It is a campaign funded by a single anonymous donator, managed by twelve people in collaboration with Puma Athlete's Guild in order to promote, you guessed it, strong contemporary women. That's the gist of it. There's a series of open lectures being planned starting in the fall, through the winter and into spring, where well-known women talk about body image and success and equality and discrimination and many important messages I've forgotten.

She couldn't have known just exactly how well her campaign resonates with me. I told her I'd think about it, and then I called her back. Five minutes later.

I haven't dared to tell anyone about it yet (not even Edward) in case it all turns out to be a dream. I'll tell them when I have something solid to show them, but so far, it's incredible. It's vague, too, but we're working on the ideas and I'm sure the campaign will find a shape during summer.

Jacob has come out. He might get sacked because of pressure from some parents, and I just—I fucking hate them. _How can we have a gay coach? My son is in that team!_

Closed-minded assholes. He's a fucking good coach, you know? Edward and Emmett have gone to off-season training _the entire winter_. Not every week, but still. Who _does_ that? He's fought for our team to be able to compete with much larger high schools from bigger districts. So maybe we're not the best, but we have a competitive team, and that's all Jacob's work.

But abuse doesn't ask for gender.

I'm pissed by the amount of shit he has to take for his sexuality. It's none of anybody's goddamn business. Even the local newspaper covers the conflict. Mr. Kramer can't legally sack him for being gay (and I've heard he doesn't want to), but I've spoken to Jacob, and it seems the whole fuss around it has exhausted him. He might leave to calm things down, and that breaks my heart.

Shit like this shouldn't happen in the twenty first century. Ugh.

Dad arrives home a few days prior to moving away from the Cullens. Emmett, dad and I spend a few evenings looking at houses that are up for rent. We settle on an old house (it's cheaper) with an unused pool but with a big back garden. One of the bedrooms is dusty and messy and lacking wall insulation which is why it is thirty degrees colder than the rest of the house. Emmett and I are sharing a bedroom until we renovate it, and one of its walls is curved like a half-circle. It's a cool room. The house belongs to Tom's wife's sister (or something), and dad only has to pay the bills and no rent if we renovate that one room.

Nepotism totally works, in case you didn't know.

We've been going to our home, too. It's a battlefield, but piece by piece, we've—by which I of course mean dad and Emmett and Edward—managed to clean the place up, and for a while it looked like grass might start growing where our house used to be, but three weeks ago, the builders dug a hole at least nine feet deep. Edward and Emmett helped the builders pour a concrete slab at the bottom, and it seems the site gains another aspect every week. Edward is ridiculously enthusiastic, jumping to the bottom of the basement and drilling holes and checking if the walls are horizontal and upright with a yellow spirit level, spending his free evenings helping us. Dad doesn't question it.

In fact, one day, when Edward notices a flaw in the way the sewerage is being built and points it out to a contractor, dad oversees it. During dinner that night, he seems more thoughtful than I've seen him lately, and says, "That Cullen boy—he's more mature than any seventeen year-olds I've met."

Emmett, of course, starts coughing because no twenty one year-olds usually behave like seventeen year-olds. (Don't worry, brother, I'm sure you'll be an exception.)

Dad has changed. Since it's been just the three of us, I can't recall a single time dad's been up before me. Of the three of us, I'm the one with a boring un-teenage-y sleeping schedule. Well, not anymore. Dad is awake at six AM sharp to go for a run. He makes breakfast, reads the newspaper. He's started to care about things he used to dismiss: when and what he eats, when he sleeps, being on time. I don't know if he's doing it on purpose or it's a habit from Glynco, but he's keeping a schedule.

He still hasn't told us about Sarah, but I don't think it's far. He doesn't make it a secret that he's not home some nights, and we don't ask. He'll introduce us when and if he's ready.

We fall into our own routine. It's assuring. It's fun, even, when I study around the kitchen table and dad works on his laptop, I read little calculus exercises to dad who sort of snorts when I ask if I could calculate (and check) the necessary measurements for our house. Math is easy. It's always been easy. It's nice to have a subject where I continue to get As even with a month-long gap in my learning.

I think we're too aware of Edward's fights with his dad, because unfortunately, my guess that having a baby isn't going to solve anything is coming true. He never says it outright. He just joins us in the evening and it's there in his mannerisms and the amount of affection he seeks from me. It's breaking my heart. On warm May nights, it's clear that he doesn't want to go home, and we have no heart to drive him away, so we watch him ignore their calls and work until late at night. It is not that we wouldn't have the power to drive him home, it's that the power is not ours to use.

One night, when Edward is having dinner at our place, Al knocks on our door. He's dressed so casually I almost don't recognize him. He steps in, takes off his hat and shakes hands with dad.

"I thought you were still in New York," dad says, smiling. He motions at the dinner table. "Care to join?"

Marshal Stephens shuffles with his feet, eyeing Edward, then me, then Edward again, and I'm not sure I've ever seen him look so uncomfortable. "Actually, I'd like to have a word with your daughter, if that's okay."

Confused, dad gives me a look. "Is she in trouble?"

"No." Al chuckles, but it's inherently uneasy. "I'd prefer to go outside if that's okay with Isabella. It's a beautiful night."

He offers his arm for me to hold as we descend the stairs, but lowers it when I don't take it. It is, indeed, a beautiful night.

"Are you okay to go for a walk? I won't take much of your time, I promise."

I nod, and we walk out of our subdivision and into a nearby park. He's quiet, and I have no clue what he could want from me as he makes light conversation. "How have you been?"

"Much better. I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. How about you?"

"How's Edward?"

"He's… good, I guess. How are you?"

"I'm alright."

Slowly, we walk in silence. There's weight in his step. Al stops in front of a small bench and I sit when he does. He rests elbows on his knees and observes me. I find it a bit alarming, but I stay silent. He stares at me for the longest time before sighing.

"I went to Vancouver," he mutters, averting his eyes and forming small ridges out of gravel with his feet. He looks up, all light blue eyes and fair hair blowing in the wind, and says, "I want you to get me Edward's DNA."

I blink at him.

"I never told you I was referring to him."

"I know," he replies, simply. He sighs. "I might've lied to you."

I sharply let my head fall backwards and look at the darkening sky. "Why am I not surprised."

"I'm sorry?"

"Everybody seems to be lying to me. Apparently, it's written on my forehead that I'm gullible. Or maybe it's just that I _want_ to believe those lies."

"This had nothing to do with you," he replies. "Sometimes it's easier."

When he adds nothing else, I ask, "So you've been to Vancouver before, huh?"

"No," he denies. "I wasn't lying about that." He takes a breath, like he's embracing himself for an answer. "Was Edward's mother's name by any chance—Lizzie?"

"Elizabeth," I confirm.

He cringes.

"She was a prostitute," Al says, quietly. "My wife and I, we took a two year break a few decades ago, and… If it's not me, I might know who his father is."

"Who?"

For a long while, we listen to the birds chirp. I observe the patterns he forms on the gravel with his feet.

"My half-brother. Apparently we have the same taste in women. Up until a few days ago, I hadn't seen him in twenty five years."

"Where is he?"

"Sitting in jail in Vancouver as we speak."

"What's he in for?"

"Rape and murder."

I sigh, with exaggerated sound, and close my eyes. My sunshine and butterflies are starting to suffocate with the reality I'm opening my eyes to. Edward doesn't need any more baggage.

"So you want Edward's DNA."

"Just a hair, fingernail, something small."

"I don't like doing this behind his back."

"I know, but—" He presses his lips together. "I don't want Edward to meet him. Ray is one of the vilest human beings I've met. If it turns out to be him, I'm ready to take the responsibility and tell him it's me."

"How likely is it that it's not either of you?"

"Quite likely," he answers. "But having met my brother, Edward's physical similarities to either of us are striking. I'm sorry I lied to you. It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me."

Maybe we never do find the right answers, or stop making mistakes, but he's trying, and I value that. Because when a sixty one year-old Supervisory Deputy U.S. Marshal admits his mistakes and attempts to rectify them, looking like your opinion matters, you reconsider what your life is going to be like. Filled with mistakes. And maybe that's okay.

"For his sake, I hope it's me."

"I do, too," I answer, and offer a small smile.

Vulnerable-looking, he clears his throat and looks me straight in the eye. "Will you please help me?"

: :

Some things in life are utterly predictable, not because of routine or habit or any of the like, but because, if you know someone well enough and see an issue repeatedly being brought up, it affects the problems you're _expecting_ to arise. I wish, with all my heart, that I was surprised when Carlisle called dad to let him know Edward had taken the car and hasn't been seen since, but I was not. Alarmed, yes. Terrified? Absolutely. Surprised? No fucking way.

Dad is ready to take the car and start searching for him, but I convince him that if Edward ends up anywhere but back home, it's likely to be us. And so I spend an entire evening sitting in the hallway, facing the door, text-messaging and calling him in vain. I'm cutting out little poems to stick on my wall (and annoy Emmett with), but my thoughts are with Edward and what kind of quarrel they could have had that ended so badly.

Carlisle, apparently, follows the same logic that I do, which means that in every half an hour, he calls dad to ask if Edward is here. Dad is patient with him. Situations that would've made him red and angry half a year ago only make him react with a calm and determined hand, a change I believe could only be explained by his training in Glynco. He pulls some strings at Kirkland PD and asks them to keep their eyes open for Edward's car. I tell them his license plate number.

And so we wait, until, at half past midnight, the doorbell rings. Edward is leaning against the doorframe, his back bag dangling from his shoulder and sports bag carelessly thrown in front of our door. His jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed on his fingers as he peels old color from the doorframe. Realizing his hand is shaking, he hides it in his pocket. Even as he doesn't make eye contact, they seem bloodshot, and his lips are pressed together tight enough for the pink to disappear. Dad and I stand, staring, incapable of coherent response because finding Edward in a state so ominous, I—I can't even express how empty it makes me feel.

"I don't—" He clears his throat. It's shaky and hum-like as if he's checking if his vocal chords still work. "I know it's late—I didn't, I didn't know." He takes a breath and ends in a whisper, "...where else to go."

He's at the brink of tears.

I don't know if it's me or dad, but the door opens wide and Edward lets the bags fall as soon as it shuts. He leans against the wall and runs a hand over his face as he attempts a smile he might intend to look assuring but instead feels twisted and filled with pain. He swallows, still careful not to look at us, and hides both hands in his pockets.

Dad's phone rings, and I think he picks it up out of sheer habit than anything. Edward's eyes snap to his, and dad, still not saying a word, puts a hand on Edward's shoulder to prevent him from leaving.

"He's here."

Dad listens, just like I attempt to, and in a firm but calm voice, says, "I don't think that's a good idea." There's a pause as dad tilts his head sideways to look at Edward. "No, he's sober."

But the second he says it, I know it's a lie. Edward's posture, the way he slowly turns his head to look at our piles of shoes and boxes, anything but me, it's slower, less calculated.

"No, he stays."

Edward exhales without noise.

"I understand. You're welcome."

When dad has disconnected his call, he holds an empty palm in front of Edward who digs car keys out of his pocket.

"How much did you have?"

"Two beers."

Dad's face twists. "If I ever catch you driving with alcohol in your system, no matter how little, I am taking your car. I don't care if you have the height and weight to hold alcohol. Am I understood?"

Edward nods. As ashamed as he looks, it doesn't cover the pain on his face that he so desperately is trying to hide. With shaking hands, he starts to unbutton his coat, but flinches away when I try to help him. Dad leaves us.

After Edward has hung his coat meticulously enough to make a professional proud, he runs a quivering hand through his hair and attempts a smile. It's broken, and when he finally makes eye contact, it's like he's not even there. His mouth twitches but he's silent, and maybe some emotions are stronger than words. When I lead him to the living room, Emmett sees us from ours and yells, "Guys, you don't have to be so snea—holy motherfucker, what happened to Edward?"

"Emmett—don't. Not today."

I follow Edward to the living room, and I don't think he even registers what he's doing as he sits on the couch, rests elbows on his knees and stares at the carpet. He snivels, sharply, and I kneel in front of him.

"Talk to me."

He lifts his head, but it's too dark to read his expression, so I sit in his lap. It seems to be the right thing to do because Edward intertwines our fingers and helps me lie down. He lies next to me, half on top of me, hides his face in my neck and wraps arms around me. I stroke his back. He takes a sharp breath, chest heaving, once, twice, and suddenly, he's rocking with sobs. He's trying so hard to be silent, to cry without sound, but the rough edges of his crying escape, and it's the most heartbreaking sound I've ever heard. Hot tears fall on my neck.

He stops, momentarily frozen and face hidden in my neck, when we hear footsteps. Emmett appears, and I can see more than hear how awkward Emmett looks on the doorway, holding a blanket. He hesitates.

"Emmett—it's okay."

In three quick strides, he's next to us, awkwardly throws a blanket on our feet and rushes away.

"Emmett?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

He nods, or at least I think he does, but then he's gone and Edward's chest presses against mine as he takes a sharp breath before letting out bursts of cries, pressing his open mouth against my skin to muffle the sound. I don't tell him it's okay. Whatever happened, it's not okay. I don't tell him to keep silent, even though he's forcing himself to be, and I don't ask him to talk. My sweatshirt is getting damp on my shoulder, and my throat gets tight and uncomfortable because I hurt for him, with him, but I can't take his pain away from him. All I can do is be here for him and hope that's enough.

"I'm—so sorry," he whispers as he rocks against me, desperately holding himself back, but his emotions are stronger; a second later, he's pressing his open mouth against my sweatshirt, muffling his cries. I squeeze him and hold him so tightly my back is starting to hurt, but I don't care because Edward is hurting and I will do anything to ease his burden, even a little bit.

"I—I didn't mean to—" he tries again, but panting and sobbing in intervals, he can't get the words out.

"I'm here," I whisper, running hands through his hair. "I'm right here."

Somewhere along the way I've learned the somewhat acceptable response in a situation like this because Edward takes a breath, a breath so deep our chests line up with each other, and muffles a strangled cry in my sweatshirt. He bawls, squeezing me and hiding his face from me. I let him.

I don't know how much time has passed when his breathing calms and he stops heaving with sobs, but I do know that while he's breathing against my neck, he's tenderly encasing my head and brushing his thumb against my hair.

"Are you warm?" he whispers with a hoarse voice.

"Yes."

That's the extent of our conversation for the night. Maybe it's out of fear for losing himself in his emotions, maybe out of embarrassment, but he doesn't say what happened. I don't ask.


	24. Fighting the Cinderella Effect

"I want to look my best for those fabulous French birds!"  
"Sir, the women currently favoured in France are toothless crones who just cackle insanely."  
"Oh, ignore that, they're just playing hard to get!"  
"By removing all their teeth, going mad and aging forty years?"  
"Like I said! The little teasers!"

— _Blackadder the Third, Nob and Nobility_

: :

_Wednesday, the 9__th__ of June  
6:10 PM. Listening to Where We Belong by Thriving Ivory. It's been a strange couple of weeks.  
_

I changed my mind. Christopher Nolan, given empirical evidence, would kill me off in his vision. Spoiler alert, Emmett, how many movies has Mr. Nolan directed that have a solid female character who does not immediately die as an excuse for the male protagonist to take revenge? Oh, yeah? Name some.

I don't even think it's a misogynistic thing, it's probably just a plot device used one too many times. By him, anyway.

I know you care, Emmett. Deep, deep inside.

Deeper.

Wait, let me find a cheesy, corny corner of my mind to make you go away. Soon, I will be writing about the depth of Edward's _emerald_ _pools_.

You are a curious fucker, Emmett. Go away. I mean it.

In the late Saturday morning, as I wander in the kitchen, I watch Edward lean against the kitchen island (in yesterday's clothes), holding a cup of coffee with both hands, and dad, sitting in front of him, observing a piece of paper. Upon noticing me, Edward puts down his cup and hugs me. His hair is damp. He kisses my nose, barely smiling, rests his forehead against mine and whispers, "Thank you."

He tucks me by his side and sips coffee.

Dad offers a pursed-lips smile. If he heard Edward's meltdown, he shows no signs of it. Not an ironic remark, not a line about toughening up, nothing. I love him for it.

He lifts the piece of paper that I now recognize as Edward's birth certificate.

"Is this real?"

"As far as I know," Edward replies. "Sir," he adds.

"Are you absolutely positive this is real?"

"No, sir. But look at me. Do I look like a seventeen year old to you?"

Dad's eyes linger on Edward's hand on my waist, but Edward is holding his head high. He pulls me closer.

"I guess not," dad says, resting his forehead on his palm as he inspects the certificate. "Do your parents know about this?"

"Do they know I'm adopted?" he asks, clenching his jaw. "My dad made that very evident last night."

Dad and I lock eyes but simultaneously look away.

"No," dad says. "Do they know you're older? You must be, what…"

"Twenty one, sir."

Dad's eyes snap to his. "Twenty one?"

"Yes, sir."

Again, dad looks between us.

Shifting, Edward suddenly finds his coffee mug incredibly fascinating. "The age of consent is sixteen in Washington State," he says, and the tips of his ears redden. "I checked."

He avoids looking at dad who is eyeing him like he's never seen Edward before.

"I respect that," dad says, and Edward dares to raise his eyes.

"You do, sir?"

"What's with the sudden yessirring? It's Charlie," he says, amused. "I'm afraid Bella is old enough to make up her own mind. If you're who she wants—" He flails with his hands like he's scaring flies away. "Then it's your funeral."

"Dad!"

And he looks at me, my dad, with all the love in the world, but continues to eye Edward. "But that's not the real problem here, is it?"

Edward lets out a breath. "Not entirely."

"So they don't know you're of age?"

"No."

"Where did you get this?"

"My sister."

"You have a sister? Where?"

"Currently in New York."

"How old is she?"

"Eighteen."

Dad focuses his eyes on Edward's birth certificate, runs a hand over his face, and looks up at us. "This is—it's unbelievable." Looking at me, he asks, "Did you know about this?"

I nod.

"Since when?"

"Christmas, I think."

"I see." Dad flicks the edge of Edward's certificate. "Have you tried finding your real parents?"

"My sister, she—my biological mother is dead. I know nothing of my father."

"Are you interested in finding him?"

"I—" Edward starts, observing but not really reading the letters on his mug. "I don't know. After yesterday, I—maybe. If dad—if he—"

Dad flails. "It's none of my business."

He stands to pour himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, opposite us. "You do realize what this means, don't you? In case that piece of paper is real, if it comes down to it, you can walk. I'm not saying you would, or should, but nobody could stop you if you wanted to."

Again, Edward's mug receives more attention than a regular-sized cup of no remarkable features is used to. But it's true, what dad said. Unusual circumstances or not, Edward is not obliged to stay in high school. Yes, he's adopted, but I'm fairly sure he'd have the right to walk away from Carlisle and Esme if he wished to, and they could do nothing to stop him. He's old enough to decide for himself. Imagine the responsibility. Imagine the freedom.

Edward clears his throat. "Can I stay here for a few days?"

"Stay as long as you need."

"It's only temporary. Just until I figure out how to approach dad."

"As long as you need," dad repeats.

Edward takes a breath and stops observing his mug.

"I can help you out with renovating or in the garage. I'm a quick learner, I can—"

"Son," dad interrupts. "You took care of my daughter for four months in situations I couldn't dream of knowing how to help her. I owe you."

He pours the entire cup's content in his throat and smacks his mug against the counter.

"I'll be in the garage if you need me." Unsentimental and practical to a fault, dad stops on the doorway. "But I'm not going to stop you if you do want to help out."

His smile is brief yet warm, and then he's gone. I take the mug from Edward's hands and hug him.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," he whispers, squeezing me. "I'm sorry about, you know."

I don't have to see his face to know he's embarrassed to have shown himself to me at his weakest. I don't like it. Not because I always thought there's nothing in this world that could make Edward embarrassed, but because I don't want him to apologize for coming to me. I don't want men to have to feel they always need to be tough and women to learn hiding their strength. We're all bound to human emotion. What is or isn't an acceptable reaction (to show) according to society, I don't care.

I hop on the counter, take Edward's hand, and make him stand between my legs. Puzzled but amused, he looks up at me. And by up, I mean down.

"You take care of me." I take his hand in both of mine. "And I take care of you. Okay?"

Funny how the moments you realize how much you've changed sometimes creep up on you, and in and of themselves, they're not important at all. I'm sure I've sat on the counter like this in front of Edward before. Yet I feel taller now, not physically but perspective-wise, and I feel like I have the potential to be okay with myself and be okay _being_ myself. I feel _tall_. Because maybe love doesn't conquer all. I am so in love with the person in front of me I could easily learn how to fly (with a plane, you moron), and I don't doubt Edward loves me. Yet he can't fix my problems, just like I can't fix his. And maybe that's okay. We can be there for each other. Maybe that's what matters.

Edward eyes me. "Okay."

"And if you want to talk, just find me. If you don't, we won't. There's time."

His shoulders sag in relief. "When did you get so wise?"

"Don't you know? I am beautiful and strong and amazing."

He kisses my nose, and, in earnest, replies, "Indeed."

"Again with the pornography." Emmett pretends to gag as he sits and starts making himself a sandwich. He picks up Edward's birth certificate and observes it. "Nineteen ninety two," he says, eyes Edward from the top of his head to his toes, and puts down his birth certificate. He shrugs.

"You don't sound surprised," Edward says.

"Oh, please. You could sport a beard if you wanted to."

"Meanwhile your cheeks are as smooth as a baby's butt," I say, patting my brother's face.

"Shut up." Emmett turns away, munching his sandwich. "Most eighteen-year olds don't sport beards."

No, Emmett, you don't sport a beard. But I don't tell him because, you know, that might actually hurt him. And apparently I'm all tactful now and shit.

Edward observes the casualness with which my brother dismisses his birth certificate, and frowns at me. "Did you tell him?"

"Nope," Emmett says. "I learned it from her dia—"

I smack my palm against Emmett's mouth. It's a bit grose, but desperate times call for desperate measures. "Please make yourself at home while I go murder my brother."

In the afternoon, when I'm knuckle-deep in soil in front of our home, trying to be soul mates with earthworms as I cover the soil with cosmos seeds, I watch Carlisle's car pull up on the driveway. I stand to see my dad, Emmett and Edward engrossed in their work. They're helping builders measure, mark, cut and lift pieces of wood. Seeing as Carlisle continues to sit in his car, eyeing them, I walk up to him. He scrolls down the window.

"Hi Carlisle."

I watch as he lifts a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He doesn't seem to have slept. "Hello, Bella." His voice is low and tired. "Do you think I could go and—talk to him?"

"It's too raw."

He averts his eyes. "Esme isn't speaking to me."

I stretch my fingers and stand in front of him without an answer.

"Did he tell you what I did?"

"No."

His shoulders sag. "Not my finest moment."

Finger by finger, I pull off my gloves and discard them on the grass. I lean against the car because crouching all morning hasn't done me any good, but I also hold my head high. I voice the question Edward's asked me more than once.

"Why did you adopt him?"

"So he told you."

"He told me the night we spent in one oh six. He's known for a couple of years."

His eyes widen, just a bit. "How?"

"Doesn't matter."

"I thought that's why he ran."

"No," I repeat. "Why did you adopt him?"

"You'd better get in the car if you want to hear this."

I glance at dad and Emmett and Edward, laughing as they fool around. Carlisle averts his eyes and grimaces.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say.

Carlisle sighs like an old man with a dozen lifetimes behind him.

"Will you speak with him? Convince him to talk to me? To come back?"

"I'm afraid it's up to him."

"But you know him. He trusts you."

"Which is exactly why I can't," I explain, picking up my gloves. Carlisle waves at the construction site, and I turn to see Edward staring at us in the distance, but he turns away and jumps in the basement. Carlisle drops his hand and runs it over his face. He looks pained.

"You need to listen to him. Really listen. Because your son would move the stars for you if you so much as implied that you trust him with his choices. So when he comes back, listen to what he has to say."

He pauses, and it's a long one.

"What if he doesn't?"

"Nobody could be in that kind of pain unless they cared."

"Was it bad?"

"Worse."

"What do I have to do?"

"Give him time, and when he does come around, listen to him. Just swallow whatever the bullshit you want him to realize about his future, and listen."

"But you agreed with me. You understand that he's capable—"

"It doesn't _matter_. We're all capable of remarkable things. Don't guilt-trip him into choosing a future _you_ want for him. He's a phenomenal guy. You might want to open your eyes to that fact before he chooses to walk away."

"He's still seventeen. Legally—"

"Fuck the legal system, Carlisle. You're _already_ not listening."

I let out a breath and crouch. I'm about to lose it, and I haven't lost it for weeks.

"Bella? You okay?"

"Yeah," I mutter, press my lips together and stand. I lean against the car. "Look. Here's the thing, or how I see it. Edward wants to belong. Whether that means physical proximity or taking up every hobby he can, it doesn't matter. He wants to belong because _you won't let him_. And if he can't belong with you, he'll find other ways to belong elsewhere. Maybe he wants to explore what he can or cannot do and what he is or isn't capable of, and he can't do that with your arrows on the way. Let him have his own arrows, even if _you_ _feel_ they're not as strong as yours."

"Arrows?"

"Doesn't matter," I say. "If you keep telling him about the choices _you think_ are suitable for him, he will do exactly the opposite just to get a rise out of you. I know I would. You can't suffocate him if you want him to be successful in anything."

"I don't mean to suffocate him."

"What you _mean_ makes no difference. In _his reality_, you are, and that makes all the difference for him."

He looks at me, lips pressed together, but I don't waver. I don't blink.

"You should go."

"When do you think he'll be ready to talk to me?"

"I don't know."

He starts the engine.

"Carlisle?"

He looks at me.

"Make a list of all the reasons you love your son. If the occupation you expect for him makes it even the top five, you might want to spend more time finding the answers in the mirror."

I put on my gloves, sit by the bed of flowers with no flowers in it and rest elbows on my knees, watching the guys. Edward climbs up from the basement, eyes on the road, but when he finds it empty, he locks eyes with me. I give him a meager smile. He doesn't come by to ask what his dad wanted and I don't rush to tell him. He just nods.

You've got my back, Edward.

But I've got yours.

Carlisle sits in his car in the parking lot by our school every following evening for a week. I'm positive he's asked for someone for Edward's schedule because Edward tells me Carlisle is there even if he leaves at eight PM. Edward pretends not to notice, but I see him hesitate just a fraction more each day.

He talks to his mom on the phone and makes sure she's okay. He's conflicted to feel loyal to them (I think), but he doesn't share his thoughts or feelings about what happened and I don't ask.

It's an odd week. Dad, while totally casual about Edward staying with us, makes sure that I sleep in my own bed. (Like it's possible for any kind of action to happen on that shitty couch.)

It's Thursday, I'm back from Drama but Edward has yet to return from his WWF voluntary work, so I find myself sitting around the kitchen table, trying to make sense of Spanish (indirect object pronoun precedes direct object pronoun or something equally confusing) while dad eats supper and reads a document. Annoyed with my lack of linguistic skill, I drift off and observe dad, his posture and frown and the casualness with which he offers a smile when he catches me looking at him.

"You okay, kiddo?"

"How old were you when you first had sex?"

His eyes widen. If he'd been drinking, he would've definitely burst it on the table. Dad shuts his laptop.

"Is Edward pressuring you?" His face colors, and his words are sharp. "Because I swear I will personally castrate—"

"Dad!"

He lets his documents slip on the table. Eyes deathly serious, he says, "If he is pressuring you, you need to tell me."

"Oh, for god's sake. It's like you've never met the guy," I reply. "Be real."

His face clears, if only a bit. "He's not pressuring you?"

"Christ, no."

"You swear?"

"Pinky promise and shit. I swear."

I watch his face express a lot of emotions before he gets uncomfortable enough not to look me in the eye. I think he's about to excuse himself, but instead, he rubs his chin and clears throat. "Good." And yet, it seems he's about to bolt.

"So, how old were you?"

The chair creaks as he stands and finds some excuse to open the refrigerator. "Sixteen. I was, uh, sixteen." He comes back with a carton of juice, and raises his eyes as a warning. "Don't start getting any ideas, young lady. You have to understand those were different times and—"

"Will you stop it? I'm not about to judge you. I just wanted to know." Embarrassed, I wring arms together and avoid his eyes, but when I raise them again, I see that dad is ready to bolt.

"I just want to…" I wish I had Edward's ease where awkward stuff was concerned. "Remember how you said I should always feel comfortable talking to you? I know this is not like the bullying stuff, but I—I kind of want to talk and, I don't know who else to talk to. Please?"

Dad's face softens. "It's just that you are still so young," he replies quietly. "I don't want you to rush into anything."

I raise my eyebrows.

"Different times, young lady," dad repeats, voice firm.

"Dad—I can either be upfront about what's on my mind or I can go about it behind your back. Which do you prefer? Would it be so horrible if I came to you and asked about things that worry me?"

Dad stands, and for a second I'm sure he'll leave the room and pretend this conversation never happened, but instead, he leans on the counter beside me, and with a voice that's almost vulnerable, he says, "I'm sorry. It's just… you're my little girl, you know? Maybe it's the double standard every dad has."

I bend my knee, hug it and give him a shy smile. "Who was your first?"

Dad, upon understanding that I really do want to discuss this, pulls out a chair next to me and straddles it so that he can cross his arms above the backrest. "Your mom," he answers quietly.

"How did you know you were ready?"

"I, uh—I'm not sure we were. We _thought_ we were, but… we could've waited."

"Do you only say that because you're talking to your daughter?"

He reddens slightly, looks down, and then smiles at me. "We were mad for each other."

I let out a snicker-snort, but I'm grateful he's being honest with me.

"Where did it happen?"

This time, dad blushes stark red, and clears his throat.

"Dad?"

"In a car," he replies quietly, so red he might spontaneously combust. "Now, don't go getting any ideas—"

"Don't worry, we're too tall for that to be anything but uncomfortable," I say, sighing. "Did it change things between you?"

Dad rests his chin on his knuckles. It's familiar and odd and I appreciate the effort he's putting into treating me like the near grown-up I am.

"Are you worried that going all the way will change your relationship with Edward?"

"A little."

"How?"

"I don't know. What if that's all he wants? Or what if he decides I don't live up to, you know, expectations? What if because of what I've experienced I'll never feel okay with that kind of proximity? Or, like, I freak out? And if I'm ready, how do I let him know? How do I know if I'm ready in the first place?"

I don't know if I've ever seen a man look as uncomfortable as dad does. His attention is drawn by my papers and textbook. Quietly, he says, "You could start by telling him all of this."

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

"Okay," I reply. "Thanks."

He presses his lips in a tight smile and nods. "Do you trust Edward?"

"Yes," I answer. "Do you?"

He nods and opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again. He shifts, sighs, and avoids my eyes.

"You are totally fighting against telling me not to have sex until I'm thirty five, aren't you."

An amused yet embarrassed smile lights up his eyes. "That's not true."

"Uh-oh."

"Fifty."

I burst out laughing and dad smiles, a bit protective-looking but not nearly as uncomfortable as he first seemed.

"Listen. I know Emmett told you about—what happened, and I just don't want you to feel like mom betrayed us and she is to blame. We both were. I took her for granted and didn't work as hard at our relationship, and she—she needed more attention than I was paying her. Maybe she made the wrong choices, but I did too, Bella. I did, too. And she always put you first, you have to know that. We both did."

"I know," I reply, gathering my papers to ask Emmett for help later. "I don't blame either of you. Your life is none of mine to judge."

Dad tilts his head on the side, sharply, almost like he respects my answer. I kiss his cheek. "Thanks for listening."

Embarrassed, he shrugs. When I'm at the doorway, he says, "Bella."

"Yeah?"

He envelops me in a warm hug. "Be careful." He shifts, uncomfortable-looking, and wraps fingers around my wrist. I find myself holding something small and sharp-edged, and when I look up, dad is just about as red-faced as I am.

"I'm not saying I approve, or you should. But if you're absolutely sure, I'd rather you were—"

"Dad."

"—protected. But if you're only interested because you're afraid Edward might—"

"Dad."

"—leave if you didn't give him that part of—"

"Dad!"

He shuts up. I'm not sure whether to more disturbed (or relieved) by the fact that dad carries condoms in his pocket or that he actually just gave me one. I start to correct him, but the front door shuts. Edward and Emmett stop talking the moment they see us standing on the kitchen doorway, red-faced.

"What's wrong?" Emmett asks.

"Nothing," dad and I say simultaneously. They take off their shoes and eye us as I hide a condom in my pocket, reddening further. Edward frowns when he kisses me.

"I'd like to have a word with you, son," dad says, sounding all business.

"Dad! Please." I step between them. "Please. That was for your ears only. Please don't do this."

"What?" Edward asks, amused.

"You don't have to. Please. Dad's just being—"

"Five minutes," dad says. As soon as they've left, I bang my head against the wall.

"I've seen that before," Emmett says, heating pasta for himself. "So what's the occasion?"

"I just made sure I died a virgin."

"How come?"

"I spoke to dad about sex."

He leans over the counter when he bursts out laughing. "Oh, man. You're never getting laid."

I force Emmett to help me with Spanish. It takes alarmingly long for Edward and dad to reappear, but when they do, dad looks so embarrassed I actually feel sorry for him. Edward, in turn, appears remarkably unaffected and says nothing as he heats dinner and sits by me. I think he's amused by my blushing, but when I ask what dad told him, he shrugs, saying nothing.

He's been at our place for a week, and I can't believe I never noticed, but, he's used to good life.

It's not that he throws temper tantrums when he doesn't get what he wants. No, no. It's just small things he's never had to think about—saving warm water for others when he's having a shower, buying and preparing his own lunch, cooking for himself. It's not that he can't, he's just never had to. If I lived with mom, maybe the same would apply to me. But I don't, and it doesn't, and when I discover Edward in the bathroom at one AM on Friday night (okay, Saturday), cursing at the washing machine as he pushes all his clothes into it, I learn a few things about my boyfriend.

He's reading the labels of three bottles (two detergents and a fabric softener) like his life depended on it before he decides, to hell with it, grabs a fabric softener and starts pouring it on all his clothes. Black, white and colored.

He jumps a little when I wrap arms around him. I take the bottle, cork it, and sneak around him. The tips of his ears redden when I explain that you have to separate clothes, that temperature matters and that detergent is kind of necessary. I patiently teach him to set the temperature and use the washing machine, and when I'm done, I hop (okay, crawl and climb) on the old piece of metal and eye him.

He's so upset his neck is red. "I had it under control."

"I wish I hadn't been here so I could see your face in the morning when all your white clothes were pink."

"Pink?"

"New, dark red towels with white shirts? Brilliant washing technique."

He hangs his head, groans, and wipes his face.

"Edward?" I ask, quietly. "Why didn't you ask for my help?"

"I could handle it."

"Clearly."

He huffs, avoiding my eyes. "You must think I'm such an idiot."

"For not asking for my help? A little."

Groaning, he rubs his face. I pull him closer, kiss his knuckles and wait for him to speak. He struggles. "I'm sorry," he says. I offer a smile when I finally catch his eyes.

"I never took you for someone too proud to come for my help."

He nuzzles my neck. "'cause it's embarrassing."

"Talking about masturbating and walking in on your parents having sex is totally normal, but asking your girlfriend to explain how the washing machine works? I can see how that would be mortifying in comparison."

He snickers, slides hands around my waist, and leans in for a kiss, but immediately stops and leans his forehead against mine.

"Do you think I'm spoiled?" He pulls away to look in my eyes. Grimacing, he fiddles with the edge of my elastic corset. "Your dad had to show me how to use the stove the other day."

"It's a tricky stove."

"Come on," Edward says, giving me the stink eye. I press my nose against his chest as I laugh, and Edward, ever the gentleman, grunts at my amusement.

"Am I spoiled?"

"A little." I observe the red tips of his ears as he continues to cringe, but brush my fingers over his forehead. He closes his eyes and sighs. I can't help but smile at how frustrated something silly like this can make him. "In your defense, you never assumed me to do all these things for you, and that speaks volumes about your upbringing. Especially since your mom is kind of a typical housewife."

Edward hesitates. "She's got a degree, you know."

"Don't you dare tell me she went to Harvard, too."

"No." He smiles. "Boston University."

"What did she study?"

"Administrative Studies. Financial economics, I think. Master's."

"No offense, but I would've never, ever guessed something like that."

"That's because she didn't like it," Edward says, and his eyes reveal his exhaustion. "She's actually on my side, I think, because she forced herself to go through college studying something she didn't enjoy. But she'd never say it, she'd never confront dad about it, and it—it sucks. It fucking sucks because I know she's on my side, but she'd never tell dad to back up. I don't know if she doesn't want to tell him he's wrong about something in his life, or if it's because he's the one earning money. But—I don't know, Bella." He lets out a heavy breath. "I just don't know."

He's putting himself under an unbelievable amount of pressure, and it shows in his actions and affection and in the pain in his eyes. I slide off the washing machine and press myself against his bare chest. He kisses the top of my head, slides his hands up and down my back and nuzzles my neck. It's like he's suppressing the pain of a dozen people and it's just dying to get out. So I hold him and let him hold me in the middle of the night in the bathroom.

"What if I leave them?"

"For good?"

"Yeah."

"You'd be stubborn enough for sure, but—is it what you want?" I lift my chin to look him in the eye.

"I don't know."

"What do you want?"

He hesitates. "I… don't know."

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

He breaks eye contact, and sounding frustrated, retorts, "I don't know."

"Ten years?"

"Jesus, what's with the Spanish Inquisition?" He huffs. "I don't know, alright? I don't fucking know!"

When Edward feels me pull away, he strengthens his grip and doesn't let go. "I'm sorry," he whispers, presses his lips in a line and brushes them against my forehead. "Jesus, what's gotten into me? I'm just… it's such a strange time in my life. I'm sorry."

How hypocritical would I be if I judged him for snapping at me under pressure?

"It's okay."

He tilts my face up to look in my eyes, and tenderly peppers my cheeks with kisses until he pulls back, just slightly, and catches my gaze. Neither of us blinks, but then he tickles me, and I finally see him laugh when I attempt to give him a hickey. Sliding both of his hands through my hair, he wets his lips and says, "I _miss_ you."

"Sucks for you."

Edward squints, an amused kind of warning in his eyes. "You don't miss me?"

"Nope."

He grins, kisses me like I'm the air he wants to breathe as his hands stroke and squeeze my back, pulling me closer. I'm red-faced and panting when he pulls away, and he grins before breathing in my ear. "What about now?"

"Maybe a little," I whisper, but Edward tickles me until I'm out of breath and laughing, and when he pulls me back in his arms, I press my cheek against his chest. "Fine," I admit quietly. "I miss you, too."

He grins, all twinkly-eyed and happy.

"Sleep with me tonight."

"I—"

"Not like that," Edward rushes to explain. "Just, you know, actual sleeping."

I smile at his antics. "Relax. I just thought dad told you he'd lock me in a tower if you ever attempt to touch me," I reply. "On that note, what did he tell you?"

Amused, he replies, "Nothing I wouldn't expect my girlfriend's dad to tell me."

"Which is?"

"Stuff."

"Smug bastard."

He grins and grazes my ear with his lips. "Will you come? I just want to hold you."

"You're not afraid my dad will shoot you in the morning?"

"Not really," he replies. "I told him some things myself."

"Is that why he was so flustered?" I ask. "And what? What did you tell him?"

Refusing to answer, Edward continues to nuzzle my neck. "It's okay if you don't want to join me, but I miss you," he mutters. "I just want to sleep with you in my arms."

You don't say no to the smooth bastard my boyfriend is, and so I find myself lying on top of Edward on our five star couch (surely, his feet dangling over the edge is not comfortable), but he bends his knees and wraps his limbs around me. He's a huge cuddler and I love him for it. True to his word, we kiss and make out like the teenagers we are but don't go any further. I lay my head against his bicep when I get sleepy, and I can feel his thumb stroke my hair. He's watching me, I can feel it.

"Edward?" I mutter, half-asleep.

"Yeah?"

"The next time you wash up, don't pour half a bottle of dishwashing liquid on the sponge, okay?"

"Okay." Snickering, he steals a kiss. "Sweet dreams, love."

I wake up several times during the night to feel him still stroking my hair. One of those times, when I open my eyes, he's so deep in thought he doesn't realize I'm awake until I graze his jaw with my fingertips. He kisses them.

"Did I wake you?"

"No," I whisper, listening to the sounds of a quiet house. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," he replies, smile in his voice. "That's not why I'm awake. I just have a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk?" I ask, wiping my face to be more alert.

"Not now," he replies. "Go back to sleep." He kisses me. Quietly and tenderly, he adds, "I love you, Bella."

I wake up other times, too, and even though I'm aware he's awake, I only turn in his arms. He squeezes me, kisses my hair, and I kiss his skin. It's an odd, wordless world of emotional intimacy I'm learning to explore, one that offers trust and support and affection in return for mine.

I wake up in my own bed, a blanket around me as much as it's under me, and it feels like I've imagined everything until I arrive in the kitchen and Edward greets me with a kiss and a tired, secret smile. Emmett observes us for a long time. In the alternate universe I've entered, even as it's clear my brother knows I wasn't in my bed all night, he doesn't comment. It's odd.

It appears he and Edward were discussing me because their conversation stops the moment I arrive, but neither looks guilty. Neither explains. In fact, both look more mature than I've ever seen, and the atmosphere is so serious I don't feel right offering my usual comic relief. So I watch my brother watch us in silence and watch him back in silence.

Told you, odd.

On the first day of June, a Tuesday, Carlisle isn't in the parking lot anymore, and Edward actually stops to eye our surroundings. I do, too. He's not here. Edward gets a funny look in his eye, sad and sort of desperate. He turns on the engine and intertwines our fingers.

"Why don't we go and see how mom is doing, what do you say?"

"Do you want to drop me off first?"

"Can you come with me?"

"Of course."

"You're sure?"

I kiss him. "Let's go."

Twenty minutes later, he's unlocking their front door and I nearly expect Ping Pong to start barking because I associate this place with him, but the house remains quiet and I come to my senses. Nobody's home. It's strange, coming back here to see that nothing has changed.

Edward doesn't let go of my hand as he looks at the pictures of him and his family on the living room mantelpiece. He picks up one where he's a pre-teen in Carlisle's hospital gown, pretending to listen to Esme's lungs. Both are grinning.

"Someone, somewhere is very proud to follow their father's footsteps," Edward says, carefully placing the picture back on the wall.

"But you're not them."

"How much would it fix if I were."

"You can't beat yourself up for not being someone else. You're you, and you're wonderful."

It's a funny sort of laughter that escapes him when he runs his fingers through my hair. He looks at me, squints, and then smacks a wet, exaggerated kiss on my temple.

"So my boyfriend thinks I'm a dog, and you think you have issues."

Edward laughs but continues to browse the pictures. He picks up the one where I'm holding a bucket between my teeth, struggling to open a door. It's bittersweet to be treated like part of their family in a way yet know how many problems they have under the surface.

"I didn't know there's a picture of it," Edward says, bashful when he turns to me. "How could you do that and not realize how romantic the gesture was?"

"It was hardly romantic."

"Oh, it was romantic, all right," he says, smiling.

"Shush." I take the picture and place it back on the fireplace. "Do you want to wait for them to get here?"

Trails of laughter fade from his eyes when he contemplates my question, and so we happen to be sitting on the couch, talking nonsense and taking his mind off things when the front door shuts.

As seconds pass and we hear two voices, not talking but kissing, probably, I stop worrying if Edward's ready to talk. Because as Carlisle and Esme enter the room, not noticing us, wrapped around each other and giggling, Edward stands like he's a string bended much too far who needs to shift back to his original state. Slowly and deliberately, Edward closes his mouth and stares. It is not the fact that his parents are making out, or that he's witnessing it. Both of those things, I'm sure, have happened before.

It's seeing them happy.

It's them happy without him here, and if I could pick one memory and the emotion tied to it and scrub it off, it would be seeing Edward's face, ashen with hurt, as he shrinks like someone beat him to the gut, and that look, desperate and in pain, when he locks eyes with me. My knuckles hurt because his grip is strong, but I don't pull back. I stand.

And you can't even blame them because maybe today, Carlisle and Esme find comfort in each other. Maybe they haven't laughed since Edward left, and maybe this is the only thing that diverts their attention from all their worry.

But I doubt maybe is running through Edward's mind, and just when I think I can't take it anymore, Esme whispers something sweet in Carlisle's ear and he laughs. He fucking laughs. And maybe all my maybes are true, but Edward clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth might break, and clears his throat. His parents jump apart, and their smiles fade.

"Edward," Esme whispers and takes a step forward.

"You were right, dad," Edward says, but his voice doesn't really sound like him, and with all his shrinking, he seems to have grown a foot or two. "You don't really need me anymore."

"Edward—" Esme repeats, but with all that ominous calm demeanor, Edward walks to her and kisses her forehead.

"Will you give me a moment with dad? I don't want to upset you."

Esme runs her hands over Edward's forearms and face, as if checking he's real, and says, "We've been so worried, you have no idea… are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I just need a moment with dad. Please?"

Esme hesitates, and I'm positive she would stay if it weren't for her little bump. I wish I could go with her, but I feel like Edward might've reached his limit, and I think, I hope, that even if he says what he needs to say to Carlisle, I'll be able to bring him back to me. Because the way he's standing, hands gripping his hair and breathing so deliberately, he might need me.

Esme leaves, but Edward continues to stand like that, not looking at either of us, before he reaches for a drawer and pulls out stacks of papers. He finds a piece of paper and takes out his birth certificate from his bag (I didn't even know he's been carrying it with him) and smacks both papers on the table.

"Explain."

Carlisle startles, just enough to be noticed, and I don't blame him. I've never heard Edward so intimidating. So desperate.

Carlisle picks up both pieces of paper and observes them. "What is this?"

"My birth certificate."

Slowly, his mouth falls agape. "Is this real?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Where did you get this?"

"Doesn't matter."

"You're not—"

"I have never, ever acted my age. You've repeatedly emphasized that." Edward inhales through his nose, like he's trying to calm himself. "Why did you adopt me?"

"Edward—"

"Why did you adopt me!"

Carlisle puts down both birth certificates. "We couldn't have a child, you were on paper and that made us reconsider adopting. We went to the orphanage, and… there you were."

"Promising," Edward scoffs. "In all my _promising_ fucking glory, there I was."

"You can't blame us for wanting a healthy kid."

"Future written in fucking stone, you thought. There's that kid from a prostitute who can save lives, let's take that and give him a _promising_ fucking future."

"You cannot blame us for wanting what's best for you!"

"Best for me." Edward huffs. "Sure, Edward, you'll have no choice what you want to do with your future, because you're so fucking promising we will make that choice for you. But don't worry, we'll do what's _best for you_. Fucking nightmare."

"It's not like that," Carlisle says in a small voice.

"What's it like then, huh? Do I owe it to you to make that choice because you've taken care of me for fourteen years? Do I? Do I owe my future to you because without you I would've grown up god knows where?"

"Of course you don't."

"Then why do you act like I do?"

"I never meant to—"

"Bullshit. You _do_. I've known I was adopted for two fucking years, and not once did I throw it back at you! Not once! Because _I _don't blame you for adopting me. But for _you_ to do it? Fuck."

"I'm sorry," Carlisle mutters, taking a shaky breath of his own. "I never meant what I said. I am sorry."

"Do you know what a boy from an orphanage is happier to do than follow the future that's written in stone? To hear the guy who raised you say that you're not worth fucking shit because you're adopted! That I will never live up to your expectations because I'm not your _real_ fucking son. Thanks, dad. Always wanted to get that thrown in my face."

Carlisle swallows, pale, and runs a hand over his face. He makes eye contact with Edward. "Son, I am sorry. Truly."

"That's okay. Because you don't need me anymore."

"Edward—"

"No," Edward manages a smile, a twisted smile filled with so much pain it hurts to look at it, but he manages it. "You got me when you thought you couldn't have any kids of your own. Well, circumstances changed, and you have your own little family now. And I—I'm happy for you. I am."

The twisted smile continues, and Carlisle looks beaten and on the verge of tears, if such a thing is possible. Edward puts back the stack of papers and picks up his birth certificates. He holds out a hand to me. I don't know how to help him. He loves them, or he wouldn't be as broken as he is, but he's in too much pain to admit it to himself that he needs them, too, just like they need him.

Carlisle stands on the doorway. "Please don't." And then Esme is behind him, too, clearly too agitated by Edward's arrival to sit still.

"It's okay, mom. I'll just get out of your way."

"Out of our way? But you live here. This is your _home_."

"No—I think… Maybe it's best for all parties involved if I just—leave. To find my own way. A poorer way for sure, but mine. My own."

"Let's talk about this."

"No, dad. All we do is talk. You're all talk. All that talk about integrity, talk, talk, talk. If I stay, maybe you'll try to give me room for a few days, weeks if I'm lucky, but then you'll fall in the same pattern because you always do, dad. You always do. You say you understand my perspective, but then you act like you don't, and what am I supposed to think? I will hate myself _and_ you if I stay."

"Son—" Carlisle starts, but one quiet look from Edward, and he stops his thought. "Tell us what you need."

"You have your family to think about, and I don't belong in it. So it's okay, really."

"You _are_ our family," Esme says.

"You don't have to say that."

"But you _are_."

"You don't have to pretend."

"Edward," Esme says, standing in the middle of the corridor, hands on her sides with no intention of letting him through. Eyes burning and head held high, she looks him straight in the eye. "_You_ chose _us_, that day we came to the orphanage. You hadn't said a word to anyone for the four months you'd spent there, and _you_ came to _us_. You _talked_ to us. So you see, you cannot leave. You have to give us another chance to get things right. Because we love you."

Edward runs a hand through his hair. "Mom, I—"

"Please."

It's Carlisle, pursed lips and low voice, and he looks so beaten I don't know what to think anymore. Apparently, neither does Edward, because he looks at them, back and forth, and sighs. Maybe he didn't expect them to resist him leaving, but I'm glad they are. He needs to see them fight for him.

"Give me time."

"How much?"

"Until the end of the school year—at least."

Carlisle and Esme look at each other, and Esme lifts a hand to caress Edward's cheek. "Alright."

"Yeah?"

"Alright," she repeats. "We love you."

"I know," Edward mutters. "Just give me time."

"Okay," Esme whispers, and Edward walks to the end of the corridor and leaves the house. I'm frozen in my spot.

"That parking lot thing—I think he needs to see you won't give up on him, so if you could continue that… it might give him hope."

Carlisle nods.

"I'd better go."

I turn to leave, but Carlisle calls after me. "Bella?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of him."

"I will," I reply. "I hope things work out, but I can't fix this for you."

"We know, honey," Esme says. "Thank you."

Two subdivision entrances later, Edward pulls the car to a stop, turns off the engine and rolls his chair backwards. Staring at me in silence, he holds out his hand. Instead of taking it, I sit in his lap. He slides his hands under my cardigan and blouse, warm hands stroking my skin, and rests his head against my neck. I squeeze him back.

"I was too hard on them."

"No."

"I was."

"Don't start guilt-tripping. They needed to see they can't take you for granted, and they have to be able to change their attitude to have you back."

"What if they realize they don't need me?"

"They won't."

"What if they do?"

"They won't."

"But what if they do? I have nobody."

"Come on, now. See that girl squirming in your lap? I hear she's in love with that dude under her. And she doesn't like being called nobody."

Edward pulls back, smiles, and leans forward, pressing his chest against mine to hold on to my back. "Squirming?"

I press down, and Edward shakes, huff-chuckling against my neck. His hands roam under my blouse as he nips and sucks my skin. "Do you have _any_ idea how much I have to hold myself back not to scare you away?"

"Do you constantly want to be having sex with me?"

"Yes," he replies without hesitating. Only two seconds have passed when he sucks his lips from my skin and looks at me, horrified. "Shit, I'm sorry. You were being sarcastic."

"It's okay."

"No, I… Jesus. I don't want to pressure you. No pressure, okay? Forget I said anything."

"Stop freaking out." I brush a thumb over his eyebrow. "Do you, really?"

"Yes," he admits in an exhale. His breath tickles my ear. "I can't pretend I don't want you when most of the time you're driving me mad with need."

"Is there anything I can do to encourage such madness?" I ask and press my hips down against his. He jerks, sucks in a breath, and squeezes my hips. I hum because he feels so good but I don't actually know what the hell I'm doing.

"Bella," he mutters, panting. "I will come in two seconds flat if you don't stop."

"Are you opposed?"

He presses me down against him. "Definitely not," he whispers. "But I only have one pair of spare jeans in your place."

"Sounds like a challenge."

His head falls back when he laughs, but it's breathless, too. So is mine. He holds me steady, and for once, I don't do the cruel thing. Even though I want to.

"I think I—I think we could explore us," I mutter shyly. "Physically."

He pulls back to look in my eyes. "Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"I just thought…"

"What?"

"That you're not quite… there yet," he replies. "And that's okay. I'm not complaining."

"I'm just—can we talk about this before we go the entire way?"

He kisses my neck and rests his forehead on my shoulder. "Do you want to talk now?"

"I don't think the timing is quite appropriate."

"I disagree," he says. "I need the distraction." He runs his hands up and down my waist, slowly, kisses the side of my jaw and pulls the back of his seat upright. I fall against him so that my stomach and chest are pressed against his. His hair brushes against the top of the car, but he continues to tickle my skin as he looks at me. "Tell me what you're worried about."

"Don't laugh, okay?"

"I won't."

"It's just that—I'm scared."

His eyes soften. "Of what?"

"You're—you are so open about these things. Affection and love and desire and, you know, things that make me embarrassed."

"I can tone it down if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Don't. I like it." I touch his Adam's apple, just to have something draw my attention away from his eyes. I'm not used to my own shyness in situations like this. "I like it a lot. It's just that—you know what you're doing. It's so clear. You know how to kiss me to make me feel like I want to crawl into you, or how to touch me, even casual affection. And me? I don't know any of that. I have no idea how to make you feel as, I dunno, cherished, I think. Like how you make me feel."

"Bullshit."

"I'm sorry?"

"That's bullshit. Experience has nothing to do with how I make you feel. Because you make me feel that way, too."

"But, but, are you just amusing me when you say something I do makes you feel good?"

"Am I amusing you with my hard-on right now?"

"I, ah, no."

He lifts my chin to look into my eyes. "Don't let your insecurities dumb yourself down. You're intelligent. I'm not about to hide the fact that you turn me on. Because you do."

"But what if I do something wrong?"

"There's nothing you can do wrong."

"That's a bold statement," I reply. "I could, for example, kick you in the groin in the middle of making out."

He chuckles. "It would hurt, but I think I'd survive."

"Will it hurt?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

Edward licks his lips and kisses me, chaste and warm. "I can't speak from personal experience because I don't own the necessary equipment, but I think it will hurt at first for you."

"Have you been with a virgin before?"

"Once, but she didn't tell me and it was a—a bit of a mess, really." He caresses my hair and holds on to the nape of my neck, eyes never leaving mine. "Are you worried that I'll hurt you?"

"Heart more than body," I admit quietly.

He gets the goofiest, most tender expression on his face. "Really?"

"Really," I confirm. "Will you be patient with me?"

"Contrary to what the guys would have you believe, we don't actually die of blue balls," he answers, smiling. "I will. Of course I will."

Shyly, I ask, "Will you show me how to make you feel good, too?"

My blush only darkens when Edward grins at me. He tilts my head up. "Hey, there's no shame in being a sexual creature."

"Maybe not in your world."

He huffs, shaking his head, and I just know he doesn't think I should be embarrassed talking about this. I wish I weren't, but just like I can't change the core person that I am to please him, I don't want to lie to do it, either.

"Can we just take it, you know, one hand-job at a time?"

He bursts out laughing, and I can feel his chest vibrate as he hugs me. "Bella, Bella, Bella," he whispers, but doesn't add anything else as I feel his lips on my neck.

"This is silly but… Right now, I'm taking all this poison for my back, but when I'm back on pills, I just want you to know—I still want to use a condom. I'm too young to get pregnant and I don't want to risk anything."

Maybe his toothy smile is supposed to reveal a secret, but when he remains quiet, I nudge him. "What?"

His eyes glint. "I like you."

"You like me?" I repeat. "You _like_ me?"

"I do," he replies with that wicked smile. "I've known it for a while now."

"Gee."

"H?"

"No, gee," I correct him. "I'm not reciting the alphabet. Now, what's that secret smile supposed to mean?"

"Do you know why we are so amazing together?"

"We're amazing together?"

"Yes," he replies, grinning. "And do you know why?"

"We both like cheese."

"No. Yes." He laughs. "Maybe. What I mean is, you know what you want. Even more so, you're not afraid to tell me what you want. I like that."

"And you deduced all of that from me asking us to use a condom?"

"You were hardly asking."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says, all confident smile and twinkling eyes. "_Don't_ _be_ sorry. That's what I'm saying. Do you know how many relationships fail because people are afraid to say what they want and what they don't? Let's not be one of them. Always tell me what you want. If it's not what I want, I'll tell you, and vice versa."

"So you're okay using a condom?"

"Very." He smiles. "You know I haven't gone without one. I would've agreed had you asked us to go bareback, but you're right. We're too young to risk anything."

I have no clue what going bareback means, but I think I grasp the context.

Edward tilts my chin up and smiles. "No shame, okay?"

I smile through my embarrassment. "What if I mess up and I disappoint you when we're, you know. Having sex?"

"Oh, fuck that," Edward says with unexpected passion. "Fuck that thought, seriously. You will not disappoint me. I fucking love you. I'll show you what works for me and I can't wait to discover what works for you." He brushes hair from my forehead and kisses me. "Fuck expectations."

I observe him, and he frowns. "What?"

"You used to be so pure and now you go all fuck this and fuck that."

He hesitates. "I shouldn't."

"Raised to express yourself otherwise, huh?"

For a while, we eye each other. I'm really starting to like how easy it is to talk about embarrassing things with Edward.

"Can we do it in the summer in the field?" I ask after a moment of silence.

He grins, and it's adorable and bright and very, very teasing. "Isabella Swan is a closet _romantic_."

"Shut up."

"A _romantic_," he repeats, grinning.

"Oh, shut up or I will feed your ego to the homeless."

"My ego? I have no ego. I am Jesus."

"So I've noticed."

He laughs, and I do, too, because not only has he taken over my habit to overuse curse words but a piece of my sense of humor as well, and to show him how much I like it when he makes me laugh, I lean in for a kiss. He responds, smiling, and the windows fog a bit as things get heated, but then I bump my head, he bumps his, and suddenly, we're a laughing heap of long limbs and affection.

"Not to cock-block you, but we're too tall to be making out in the car."

He puffs against my neck.

I jump at a tap on the window. Red-faced and rubbing my back, I sit next to Edward and watch him scroll down his window.

"Sir, I have a complaint from the neighborhood—"

Officer Thomas Kell stops talking as he makes eye contact with Edward. "You're Cullen's boy, aren't you?"

"Hi, Tom." I wave, mortified.

"Ah," he says, having seen me beside Edward. "Hi, Isabella. The people in this subdivision are concerned about your presence, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"No worries. We already figured we're too tall to have sex in the car."

Uncomfortable, he clears his throat. "Well, nice seeing you. Have a good night."

"Sufficiently awkward, indeed," I reply. "You, too."

"Thank you, Officer," Edward says, starts the engine and drives off. I facepalm and he laughs, but we both sober when Edward pulls up next to dad's work car. Hand on the door handle, he hesitates.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" he asks. "By not giving in?"

Unused to seeing him seek assurance, I wait until we're out of the car and he locks it. I squeeze his hand. "I do." He rests his forehead against mine, but stays quiet. He smiles when I do, and kisses my forehead. It feels like a thank you.

On Wednesday, rumors about Jacob's leaving hover in the hallways, and I find him walking towards the cafeteria before lunch. I jog to catch up with him, and when I do, Jacob sends me a friendly if tired smile. His hair is a bit shorter, pace a bit bolder yet eyes more guarded.

"Is it true?" I ask. "Is it true you're really leaving?"

"Good morning, Isabella," he says, aloof and friendly. "Making progress, I see. Not that I ever had any doubts."

"You can't leave, Mr. Black. Please don't leave. You've done such a great job with our football and basketball teams. Everything they've achieved is thanks to you. The Principal must know that."

His pace slows down as he eyes me, and then he motions for us to stand next to the windows. Students and teachers pass, some let their eyes linger but most ignore us.

"Thank you, Isabella," Jacob says with a friendly smile. "I appreciate that you think so. I've loved teaching here—"

"Then why are you leaving? You've done nothing wrong! Don't give those parents the satisfaction of resigning. Please. Most of them support you. You must know that."

He sighs. I've never seen him look so defeated. "Assuming that the Principal doesn't want to let me go, assuming that _most_ parents are okay with me—it's more complicated than that. Because those who are not will find an excuse to pressure me into leaving, and I'm not going sit around waiting." He eyes me, smiling. "Don't look so sad. You're a tough cookie, Isabella."

"What will you do after you leave?"

"Maybe I'll go to Cleveland with Peter, start fresh. Maybe I'll stay here and become a personal trainer. I have options."

"Is there anything that would change your mind?"

"I gave my resignation letter to the Principal this morning."

Sighing, I lean against the wall. "But who will help me get into shape for next year's marathon?"

He smiles as he appraises me. "I suggest you talk to Mrs. Haldane. Or would you like me to do it?"

"No, it's fine," I say, falling silent as I watch Peter walk toward us. His cast is gone, and he limps slightly, but all his piercings are in and he looks almost as good as new. It's depressing because he, too, will be gone in a few weeks.

"Morning, Bella. Why so gloomy?" Peter asks, smiling.

"School will suck without you guys."

"Aw," he says, drawing out the sound and exaggerating it. "You'll be fine."

"Can't you stay? Please?"

Peter pulls me into a brief hug. "You'll be fine," he repeats, pulling back. "You'll teach Drama and go to Juilliard and make us all proud with your talent and work ethics."

"Wish I had your confidence."

"Don't you, though?"

I observe students in the cafeteria as they say hi to me in passing, the seniors who cannot wait to be done with school and juniors who cannot wait to replace them. Peter and Jacob talking, waving at me, Emmett and the rest of our table laughing at something Edward said. I catch Edward's gaze.

There's such a presence to him, not just because of how tall he is but how his attitude impacts their reactions to him. He doesn't need to act any different for people to take him seriously. He doesn't ask for the authority he has among students, he doesn't need to. Maybe he's not even aware that he has it. But he does.

I take a seat beside him, and he intertwines our fingers under the table. "You alright?"

"Everything's changing."

"Like what?"

"Peter and Jacob resigning. Emmett going off to college. Half of my group of friends graduating. Dad. You. Me. The way I see you."

He squeezes my hand. "Is that bad?"

"I don't know," I reply, observing my brother. "I don't know. But it makes me sad."

Edward kisses my temple. "Would you rather everything stayed the same?"

"Sometimes," I reply. "Sometimes I do. But at the same time, I _want_ to change. How can I expect to achieve the things I want to if I'm not ready to do things I haven't done before? I have to change, and I'm ready." We watch our friends argue and laugh and throw M&Ms at each other before I turn to watch Edward eating. "It's bittersweet, I guess."

On Friday, I arrive home to find Edward sitting cross-legged in the middle of our driveway, spinning a basketball on his finger. His sweatshirt is covered in little drops of water from drizzle. He doesn't turn away his gaze when I take off my back bag and sit next to him. Not even when I kiss his cold cheek.

"Girls shouldn't sit on cold stone," he says, not looking at me. "You'll get cystitis."

I sit on my bag. "Better?"

"You could've told me," he whispers. "Hey, how were your SATs? By the way, you know that Marshal Stephens dude Charlie hangs out with? _He thinks he's your father_."

"Al's back from Philadelphia?"

He continues to spin the basketball on his index finger. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I think he wanted to be sure his suspicions were right before rushing to talk to you. He asked me to help him get your DNA, but I didn't want to do it behind your back, so I told him he'll have to ask you himself."

His eyes are glued to the basketball. (Metaphorically, you idiot.)

"How long have you known?"

"That time he took me to your place from the hospital, I noticed his laughter is so similar to yours it's uncanny. He rebuffed me, though. He said it couldn't be. But last month, when he came to talk to me, he said he'd lied and had been to Vancouver, but then he had to take off to Pennsylvania. I'm sorry. I should've told you. I just thought it'd be better if you heard it from him."

Edward says nothing for a while, and it's getting cold, sitting outside in drizzle.

"Can we continue this inside, please?"

He puts down his basketball when he finally looks at me, stands and pulls me up and in his arms. "Come here. You're cold."

"I am sorry. I thought I was doing what was best for you."

"I wish everyone would just stop making that decision for me."

I nod against his chest. "Can we continue this inside?"

"No," Edward says. "They're still going at it and I don't want to listen. Let's sit in the car."

"They? Who's they?"

He huffs when he sees I intend to sit beside him and pulls me to sit in his lap. He rolls the chair backwards as I turn up the heater. I kiss his neck and he pulls me against him.

"Who's they?"

"Your dad's girlfriend. Marshal Stephens. Your dad."

"So what happened?"

He sighs. "Nothing, really. I came home, Marshal Stephens knocked on the door and asked to talk. So we did. It was, I mean, Jesus. I never suspected—I never thought—so, anyway, at one point, Sarah and your dad walk in, and apparently, Mr. Stephen's wife filed for divorce after he'd told her what happened during their break. I mean, they were officially married. I understand why she'd react that way. But Sarah heard us talking on that subject, put the two and two together and started spewing shit at me."

"What did she say?"

"It's my fault, why would I want to tear her family apart, that kind of thing."

"Are you serious?"

Edward gives me the stink eye, and I cringe. "Right. Pink glasses, I get it. Continue."

"You dad was really cool, though, he kept trying to calm her down and telling her she couldn't hold me responsible. You're really lucky to have your dad, you know? His heart is in the right place. But they started shouting at each other so I got out of there. Mr. Stephens came to see if I was alright, but I told him to give me time to think, and then you appeared."

He rests his head against the headrest and closes his eyes. "So now I've broken up two relationships just by existing."

"That's not true," I say, brushing my fingers over his eyebrows. "You're not to blame for Al's straying. We don't know what led him to do it, we don't know if at the time they were considering divorce. We don't know any of that."

A small smile plays on his lips. "You and your dad are so alike. So sensible and good-hearted."

"Thank you."

"I almost wish it were true. But if I didn't exist, Mr. Stephens would've never been forced to admit he did what he did, Sarah wouldn't blame me for trying to break up her family, and your dad wouldn't be forced to pick sides."

"Edward," I whisper, and press my lips against his. He responds eagerly. "If you didn't exist, I would've never known it's possible to find a guy as sweet and charming and brave as—what's so funny?"

"No, no, keep going." His chest shakes. "My ego enjoys your stroking."

"Asshole," I say, and Edward opens his eyes and snickers. He encases my jaw and breathes on my mouth.

"I love you."

"I know, I can feel it."

The tips of his ears redden. "I can't help it."

"Do you want me to move?"

"No."

Edward turns up the radio, wraps arms around me and shuts his eyes. We stay like that, sitting and thinking and stealing kisses in silence.

"Are you mad at me for not giving you a heads up?"

"A little." He runs a hand through my hair. "Next time, share this kind of information sooner rather than later, and we'll be fine."

"Deal."

They're still going at it when we go into the house and stop at the kitchen doorway.

"—_married_, dad. How could you have done that?"

"It's more complicated than that," Al Stephens says, sitting at the end of the table, fingers intertwined and eyes calm.

"I think I can keep up," his olive-skinned daughter replies, and I watch dad lean against the refrigerator, watching them. He looks sort of disappointed as he nods at us.

"I was flying around the country, working non-stop. I was just never home, and when I was, our bickering was endless. She filed for divorce back then, and I hadn't signed the papers but I was sure it was over when I met her—I'm not justifying anything. But it happened, and you can't expect me to ignore the fact that I have a son never knew about."

"You're sure?" I ask. "But I never gave you—"

Marshal Stephens sighs, not saying anything.

Sarah throws a skeptical look at Edward. "So he's expecting money and daddy-bonding make-up time and—"

"_I _came here for _him_._ I_ initiated this. You must accept that."

"If he didn't exist—"

"I know," Edward interrupts. "So do you want me to jump off a bridge or slit my wrists? Which one do you think will fix your family? Or should I crawl back in Mr. Stephens testicles?"

I snort a laugh, and Al huffs under his breath, embarrassed-looking but amused.

"And I'm not asking for anything," Edward continues. "Money, time, nothing. Not even a DNA test. I didn't search out Mr. Stephens, and I have enough issues with my own family to get another with just as many if not more. I don't need to find out the truth."

Marshal Stephens stares at Edward for just a fraction of a second before he sighs and runs hands over his face. "Do you mean that?"

Edward hesitates.

"See, dad?" Sarah says. "He might not even be your son, and he doesn't want to know."

"Not like this," Edward answers quietly. "Not if it breaks apart a family."

"I fear that will happen regardless," Marshal Stephens answers with equal volume.

"You don't mean that," Sarah says. "You don't mean that. You should go home to mom. Maybe Edward's not even yours, anyway."

"I met his mother on the first days of July, 1991. Edward is born on the 25th of March, 1992. You do the math."

"She was a _hooker_. She must've had hundreds of others."

"I spent an entire week with her. She thought my name was Masen."

"How likely do you think that is, dad? It's so unlikely. Maybe she just liked the name—"

"Look at him! He's got my _face_. Her coloring, but my face, my voice, my height. My father was six ten. My grandfather was six seven. I'm six five."

"This might all be a coincidence."

"For Christ's sake, Sarah. I know you feel threatened, and I know I've hurt your mother, but you cannot expect me to ignore the fact that I have a son. You can ask me for anything but that. I'm not choosing between you and him. I'm choosing between right and wrong."

"Dad…"

"I cannot rewrite history, Sarah. I thought your mother and I were over when I met Lizzie. Do you want me to tell Edward I wish he didn't exist? I can't. I can't regret that he exists."

"You don't know he's your son, dad."

Al looks exhausted when he leans just a bit forward, sighs, and rubs his neck. "The DNA test confirmed it."

I feel Edward flinch. "You never said—"

"I know." Marshal Stephens makes eye contact with Edward. "I wanted to see how you felt about the possibility first, and I was about to tell you when—when _this_ happened." He motions around the room. Edward grips my hand so hard it almost hurts, and goes to sit.

"You're serious," Edward whispers, and sounds nothing like himself. "Are you serious?"

Al nods.

"But—but I never gave you any DNA, nothing."

Neither did I, for that matter.

"You gave it yourself when someone broke into Isabella's room when she was at the hospital. I pulled some strings."

"And, you—you mean, it's not your brother and you're just saying that so that I wouldn't—"

"No," Al says simply. "No. The moment I saw your real birth certificate, I would've known even without a DNA test."

"Dad," Sarah says, looking between the two of them. "You cannot choose between mom and a guy that carries your DNA and choose the latter."

"I'm not making your mother choose. She's making herself do it."

"But still, cheating on—"

"For the last time, Sarah, your mother and I were not officially together. The only thing that separated us from divorce was my signature. I didn't expect us to work things out the way we did, and I didn't hold myself accountable enough to tell her because we were not together at the time being. It was wrong of me, but I can't change what happened."

"I can't believe you," Sarah says, and I think she's about to cry. "How could you be so reckless and get a hooker pregnant?"

Al winces, and Edward runs his hands over his face and leaves them there. I think he's holding himself from a snappy remark.

"And you?" Sarah asks, looking at my dad. "You're on his side, aren't you?"

My dad, looking increasingly uncomfortable, eyes Al and Edward, and locks eyes with me. He nods.

"I can't believe this," Sarah says. "I'm getting out of here."

"I'm not choosing him over you," Al says gently. "But it happened, and he's mine as much as you are, and I can't change that. I hope you'll grow to understand. He's your brother after all."

"He is _not_ my brother," Sarah insists before she grabs her handbag and hurries out of the house. Even though dad goes after Sarah, he comes back looking more disappointed than alarmed.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Al says quietly. "She'll get around."

Dad nods absent-mindedly, asking, "Would you care to stay for dinner?"

Marshal Stephens, although tired-looking, smiles. "If that's okay with you."

"Do you mind if I stay to make it or do you need privacy?"

I look at Edward, and his face expresses something between shock, excitement and nausea. "Stay, if that's okay with Mr. Stephens."

"Al," he corrects Edward. "And that's fine."

"Can I help you, dad?" I ask.

I'm chopping and frying onions in no time, and observe the gentle way Edward and Al beat around the bush, all awkward-looking and incredulous but enthusiastic.

"I didn't expect…" Edward trails off, intertwining his fingers behind his neck as he eyes Al Stephens. "I don't expect anything from you. This is—I mean, wow."

"I know," he replies. "But you must know, I would've never let you end up in an orphanage if I'd known you existed."

Edward tilts his head forward. "Can you… I mean you met my biological mother, obviously. Can you—tell me about her?"

"She was… I didn't know she was a prostitute until the last day we spent together. She worked as a waitress, I asked her out. She was broke. She spoke very little English. She was a French-Canadian."

Edward says something in French, and it sounds fluent, Marshal Stephens replies in French, and suddenly, their entire conversation is in a language I can't speak.

"Guys, how can I eavesdrop if you don't speak English?"

Edward starts laughing and pulls me over for a kiss. His smile is bright and happy.

"I apologize. For your eaves-dropping conveniences, we shall return to your mother tongue."

"Thank you," I reply.

Edward's still smiling when he asks, "Do you know anything about her family?"

"Not much. She might've had a sister or a mother in Ottawa, I can't remember. I do remember she didn't want to discuss it."

"What did she look like?"

"Beautiful," Al Stephens replies. "Your hair and your eyes. She was about five foot five, I think. Fragile-looking little thing. And I—I never paid to have sex with her because I didn't know—things just got very intense very quickly."

The tips of his ears redden, and, oh, man, I want to jump up and down.

"Edward, I want to have sex with you," I say. Sure enough, he shakes his head in disbelief, chuckles, and looks over to my very uncomfortable-looking dad as the tips of his ears redden.

Dad clears his throat, but I walk up to him and whisper, "Look at their ears, dad. All we ever had to do was make them sit in the same room, make them embarrassed, and we would've known."

"Ah," dad says, more in tune with what I was trying to achieve. Most of what Edward and Al proceed to discuss is in French, and I get the feeling they're talking about me, but Edward just pulls me over to look in my eyes as he tells me something in French, and I'm lost in how sexy it sounds.

"What did he say, Al?"

He shakes his head and smiles.

"What did he say?"

Edward smiles and kisses me and as Emmett arrives and we start to eat, Edward proceeds to take in every piece of Marshal Stephens' life, his family and work and strengths and weaknesses. Al tells Edward he and Lizzie grew quite attached to each other before he had to leave Chicago. When he flew back a month later, asking around for her, he was told she'd taken off to Vancouver. (Probably pregnant.) He was also told Lizzie had a drug problem she'd managed to hide from him.

I don't think Edward looks all that surprised, to be honest, but he's soaking it all in and we stay quiet because it's such a wonder to witness their first steps together. Even Emmett doesn't look all that surprised. (Reading my diary still, are we, dear brother?)

When we're done with dinner, Edward sends Al to the front door and I trail behind him because I'm curious like that. I mean, polite.

Al hesitates.

"I don't know why or how you ended up living with Charlie, but if you should need a place to stay, I'd be happy to help you out. I don't expect you to want to, you have parents who raised you and I respect that, but I feel you need to know I will help out should you need it."

"Thank you. Right now, things are… a bit messy at home, and I don't… I don't know anything at the moment."

"That's fine."

"I am sorry about… your family. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's not your fault, son," Al says, and I swear Edward brightens as they pull each other in a hug. No words of affection are shared, but I almost die from the sheer cuteness of their blushing.

When the front door has closed, Edward's smile stretches until I'm sure his brains might fall out through his mouth. He encases my face, pushes me back against the door and rests his forehead against mine, still grinning like a maniac.

"Did you see that? I have a father, and he doesn't hate me, and he'd like to be a part of my life and he's actually a decent person. I have a father, Bella. Someone actually gives a shit about my existence."

I slide my hands behind his neck as I grin. "I'm happy you're happy."

"Happy? I'll show you happy!" He wraps his arms around me, and I expect a hug but he twirls me around until I'm starting to get sick. He puts me down, still grinning like a maniac on drugs, and kisses me so thoroughly I get light headed. And still, when I pull back, Edward is observing me with that grin, but his eyes are gentle.

Emmett and I convince dad to play cards with us on the living room floor, and even though the day didn't start out very promising, Edward's good mood is contagious and even dad is considerably brighter when we finally go to bed. Edward doesn't want to let go of me, and for a second time, we disobey dad's orders and I sleep by Edward's side on the couch. This time, though, after I've wrapped Edward in my arms and I'm wrapped in his, he falls asleep the moment he's kissed me goodnight. I observe him for a while before I, too, succumb to sleep.

: :

_Friday, the 2__nd__ of July  
10:02 AM. Edward's with his mom and dad at the hospital, but I hurt my back, so I have to stay in bed for a couple of days. I think Emmett partied all night because he smells like booze and he's drooling all over his pillow. Pleasant. But it's summer vacation, filled with sunshine (er, sometimes) and pink unicorns and building a house. _

I know I always make sarcastic remarks about you here, Emmett, but I'm just too shy to tell you I love you to death and you've taught me a lot and I get kind of teary-eyed thinking that I won't see you at school next year. Or at home, creeping over my shoulder while I write my diary. You're kind of dear to me, you know. I'm sorry I'm not good at expressing it.

But I still can't believe you were voted Prom King. I mean, dude, who did you seduce for that kind of blasphemy to happen?

I'm kidding! I'm kidding!

(No, I'm not.)

But still. Your graduation made me feel nostalgic and sad because half of my group of friends is leaving me behind, you and Tyler and Lauren and Laurent and Ben and Jessica and, oh, fuck, what if Alice starts ruling the school next year? I'll light myself on fire if she's given that kind of power. Or maybe her purse. It's a tie.

I can't believe you chose New York.

Nope, that's a lie. I totally can. But I, I mean, you make me sad. I might even pretend to cry as you leave (and proceed to jump on your bed because, dude, I have the entire bedroom to myself now!) But I'll chop onions and pretend to be devastated, because that's how much I love you.

Edward and I go to see Esme at least twice a week. Her belly is growing and other than Edward's absence, she seems happy. If at first she brings up Carlisle and/or moving back home on a regular basis, Edward makes it very clear he's not ready. But we often have dinner and keep her company, and Edward is very protective of her and her health.

He's talked to Al, too, a few times since that night, but Al sounds very busy. Dad is, too. It makes sense, because Supervisory Deputy Marshal Al Stephens is now dad's boss, and dad sometimes arrives home at eleven PM. He sounds exhausted, and when I ask him what his job description is, he says something vague about witness protection. He's carrying a gun and a silver badge shaped like a star, a blue polo shirt and khaki pants, and even though he should look like an employee from Best Buy, there's something in his stance that prevents that. Well, his attitude and the fact that his vest reads U.S. MARSHAL.

One morning, I nearly crap my pants seeing dad wear a bullet-proof vest on his polo shirt. He smiles and eats breakfast and I just hug the living applesauce out of him before he leaves. He wears that vest every day for a week, and I proceed to hug the mad raccoons out of him every morning. He's embarrassed if amused for a few mornings, but after that, he even comes to me to offer a good bye hug.

I've trained dad to hug me every morning! Go me!

Special note just for you, Emmett—I promise you will want to skip these next few sections. Just trust me on this one, okay?

I'm embarrassed to bring up sex talk with Edward, but I know dad will be in Dallas from the 24th to the 26th, and the weather report says it'll be clear and summery for those days, so I carefully approach the subject of, you know, doing a little field trip together. Edward is surprised and a lot slower to say yes than I thought he would be, and I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended. But seeing I want this, he eventually agrees. He does insist on taking care of food. I don't argue.

In the early evening of the 25th of June, a beautiful if windy Friday, I wrap arms around my legs as I sit next to Edward, nervous out of my mind. I watch the unlit city lamp posts turn into beautiful green forests. I hold my hands together so that they wouldn't shake from nerves, but that plan fails when Edward seeks out one of them and intertwines his fingers with mine. Mine are damp.

He looks over to me, contemplating my silence, and says, "We don't have to do this."

"I want to."

"Why?"

"I just want to."

"Why?"

"Because I love you and you've been ready for so long and—"

"If that's the best I could do, I'd be sweating too," Edward says, and he doesn't look at all amused. "Bella. The fact that I'm ready is not a reason. I want _you_ to want to. Or do you intend to dump me tomorrow?"

"What? No!"

His smile is sad. "Then where's the rush? We have all summer, and fall, and winter, and you're not yourself right now. If you were yourself, you would've cracked a joke or worn the ugliest pair of pajamas just because you felt like it. But you look petrified."

"I'm not petrified."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"Come on," Edward says. He squeezes my hand but huffs. "I love you. I'm not going anywhere. I won't let you pressure yourself to give me that part of you."

"Are you going to cock-block me?"

"If you keep behaving like this, yes."

He pulls the car to a stop. We're here, on the edge of the field, but Edward pulls my legs in his lap and doesn't get out. He strokes them, and when he makes eye contact, he brushes my eyebrow with his thumb, looking sober and serious and a bit sad. "Why do you really want to do this? Walk me through your thoughts."

I shrug. Edward takes my hands in his. "Hey, now. Be honest. Let's see how our realities work together and proceed from there. There's no right or wrong answer except for what's on your mind, right now."

"I want you to be my first."

Edward smiles, with the tiniest glint in his eye. "I had the audacity to presume I would be by default, being your boyfriend and all, but it's still encouraging to hear you say it. Why now, though? Where's the rush? Do you intend to lose your virginity to someone else? Forgive my presumptions, but I thought we were exclusive."

"Jesus, Edward. Of course we are."

He smiles. "I believe we covered that. What confuses me is the _now_ part of your thoughts."

"You won't like my answer."

"Given the choice between giving me an answer that pleases me and one that is truthful, I would hope you always choose the latter."

I observe his eyes, earnest and curious, and start playing with the ends of his sweatshirt strings. "So would I."

"And?"

I take a breath. "Realistically, how many high school sweethearts ever work out?"

"Does this have anything to do with us? Don't tell me statistics have turned you into a cynic."

"No, I mean, we have limited time together. I don't expect to hold your attention forever. So, I thought… I trust you and I want to make sure it's you before, you know, life interrupts our little bubble."

"Jesus Christ, not this again."

"That's not fair. You can't ask me to be truthful and then punish me for saying what you asked to hear."

"Fair enough," he replies, grimacing. "You're right. But I can't help but be annoyed. Is this what every single one of our fights will ever come down to? Your self-esteem? Because if you continue to presume we won't work out, you'll eventually create a self-fulfilling prophecy because of the mere fact you won't fight for us as hard if you believe we won't work out anyway."

"Do you believe we'll work out?"

He lifts my chin to look at me. "I've never wanted anything more," he replies. "You know, sometimes… sometimes I think we met each other too early. I've been in and out of relationships for four years. I don't like being alone, but sometimes I think, maybe I should learn to be. Maybe I should've been alone for longer before you so you wouldn't feel so pressured. And I'm sorry that I've made you feel that way. It hasn't been intentional."

"You're not pressuring me, I promise. Pinky promise. I'm pressuring myself because… because maybe I think that's what you want."

"It's not. I want _you_ to want to be with me."

"I get that now."

He sighs. "If you'd been in a few relationships before me, maybe you'd see how rare a connection like ours is. Maybe you'd want us to work out as much as I do. Because _this_—" He motions between us. "—this doesn't just happen every day with just anyone. And maybe you'd know that if we'd been older when we met."

I pull back a bit to see his eyes. "Is this one of those times when you're desperately beating around the bush because you don't want to say you actually want to break up with me?"

A snort-like huffing laughter escapes Edward. He pulls me in his lap and squeezes my waist and touches my nose with the tip of his. "Christ, no."

"Good." I smile. "Because I do want us to work out."

"Do you?"

"I do," I reply, hiding my face in his neck. "So much. You have no idea. But what we have, it kind of scares me, too."

Softly, he asks, "Why?"

"Because, I don't know. I feel so intensely about you I'm afraid I won't ever find anyone who's so okay with me the way you are."

Edward nuzzles my ear. "I'm hoping you won't have to," he whispers, and he puts so much meaning behind it but then he pulls back, grins, and takes my neck in his hands. "Anything else? Other than the fact you love me so much you want to burst into song at any given moment?"

I smack his shoulder. "I didn't say that!"

"So you deny it?" he asks, pretending to be offended. "Pity."

"You are just so, so—"

"Amazing? Incredible? Best boyfriend ever?"

"Ass!"

He grins. "I've always liked donkeys."

It's a beautiful, clear summer night, and we're already here, so we agree to have a picnic. We take a mattress and a pile of blankets to spend the night. I'm quite tense about it all, still, until Edward makes me a peanut butter jelly sandwich, sits behind me with his legs apart, and pulls me against him. The sun is about to set, and Edward wraps a blanket around us. He tells me about volunteering in Seattle Children's Hospital (he switched hospitals to make sure Carlisle didn't know about it), I tell him about maybe-possibly joining Mrs. Haldane's track and field team if my back is okay enough. He tells me about going to see how firemen work, about following Al for a day, and you know what? For a guy who doesn't know what he wants, Edward sure is determined to exclude the things he doesn't.

It's incredible to spend the evening just hanging out, acting silly and telling each other what we hope the summer will bring. I think we both need a bit of a break because spring has been insane.

"You know something, Edward?"

"What?" he asks, and presses his lips against my neck.

"You've changed since you found out Al was your father."

"How come?"

"You're calmer, I think. More determined. You don't look like you're carrying the world on your shoulders anymore."

"I was carrying the world on my shoulders?"

"You were."

"Huh."

He rests his chin on my shoulder, picks up the last strawberry, and asks, "You want this?"

I nod. He starts to bring it to my mouth but changes course and pops it in his. He raises eyebrows, feigning innocence while I turn around and straddle him. Holding it between his teeth, he teases me, and I attack him so violently we both end up on the ground, my mouth attached to his. We're laughing our heads off when I finally get back half of my strawberry, but then his face sobers, he rolls me on my back and kisses me like he means it.

Damp grass tickles my neck, and I think I have an ant down my pants because it itches.

"Wait," I tell Edward, and he pulls back, dazed-looking and leaning on his elbows as I slide a hand in my pants. Edward follows it, and his eyes are crazy intense when he looks at me. He swallows.

"Fuck," he whispers. He leans in for a hungry kiss. "Are you going to, uh. Get yourself off in front of me? I am _so_ okay with that."

"Just a second," I mutter, amused but turned on by Edward's reaction as I catch the poor bastard down my pants and proudly present it to Edward. "Sucker thought he'd get it on with me without my permission."

I crush the ant. Edward stares.

"What?"

The tips of his ears redden as he laughs, and he breathes on my mouth. "I _love_ you," he mutters, eyes glinting and amused, but then I can't see it anymore because I'm busy kissing him. He's squeezing and stroking and placing tender kisses that make me want to fly, but it's also too intense too soon and it scares me. It's not even that I have bugs in my hair and down my pants and hair damp from evening dew and fingers falling off because it's getting cold, it's that Edward knows me too well. I'm nervous and I'm scared and I'm either about to vomit or burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" Edward asks, pulling back when he realizes I'm not kissing him back, but when he sees my face he's off of me in a fraction of a second. He avoids my eyes.

"Christ," he mutters, panting. "Never look at me like that. You look terrified."

"I'm sorry." I sit up. "I'm so sorry. I thought I could do this."

"Do what?"

"You know. Have sex."

"Jesus, Bella. You thought we were about to—? _Bella_," he whispers, and pulls me against him. "I thought we just discussed this. You're not ready. I know you're not ready, you know you're not ready. Why would you think—?"

"I want to give you that part of myself."

"I'm not questioning that. But you're not ready."

"I'm not," I repeat.

"Even if you were, mentally, we'd have to get you a hell of a lot more ready physically than what we just did."

I hide my face in his shoulder because I freaked out for no reason. "I'm so sorry," I squeak. "I'm an idiot."

"Inexperience isn't idiocy," Edward replies, and pulls me on my feet. "But failing to tell me you're not comfortable with what I'm doing—that certainly qualifies." Together, we put food away and make up a bed that has more layers of blankets than the width of our one-person mattress, and I watch Edward try to play it cool as he changes into pajama bottoms, but I curse my way through the cold and press my feet flat against Edward's thighs as I snuggle up beside him. He shivers but laughs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, after we've both listened to birds chip in the distance for a while. Stars are starting to show. "I'm not scared of you. Just the pressure of overthinking. But if—if that's okay with you, we could, you know, make out some more. If you'd like."

It's light enough to see Edward blink at me.

"Or not. We don't have to."

His chest shakes as he laughs silently, and he covers my body with his. Warm thumbs graze my forehead as he leans on his elbows, observing my face, and then he places a feather-light kiss on each of my eyes. I think I might burst into a butterfly and fly away.

He takes off his shirt, but pulls the blanket back over his shoulders and leans on both elbows.

"If we do this," he mutters against my mouth. "You need to tell me, okay? If anything I do makes you uncomfortable, confused, anxious. Anything."

I pinch him.

"Ow," he says, frowning when he pulls back.

"Sorry," I whisper. "Just making sure you were real. Please proceed."

He starts laughing against my neck. "I'm trying to be romantic and you just ruin it for me," Edward says, placing long, warm kisses against my jaw.

"I'll show you ruining it." I take off my pajama pants and shirt, and struggle with my bra before it lands on my bag. I redden and shiver when Edward stares at my breasts, letting cold air under our blanket.

"Bella," he whispers, covering my body with his as he breathes against my ear. "You can't just do that."

"I think I just did." I smile, and I think he can see it because bright white teeth smile back at me. "Can I—can I touch you, too?"

Sharp breath leaves his mouth as he nods. His hands are tender for such large hands, and he presses one against my heart before sliding to my hip and upwards, grazing my belly-button and scar, gripping my waist like I'm fragile and feminine and _his_. His kisses are slow and wet and trailing a line from my neck to my boobs, and I dare to press my hand against his love trail and grip his hip. I slide one behind him, touching his muscles and squeezing his own waist, bringing him closer. He jerks and lets out a sharp, warm breath against my neck.

I kiss him back, trying to imitate his actions to make him just as crazy as he's making me, and I think it works because he groans and shivers and lets out silly little laughs. I guide his hand to the edge of my panties, and place his thumb underneath. I kiss his neck.

"_Bella_," he says. "You don't have to. We don't have to."

"I know. Not the whole way," I whisper. "But I'd like to learn being comfortable naked around you, if that's, I mean, if that's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Stop questioning and get my damn pants off."

"Yes, mam."

His head pops up behind me a second later, and he's about to throw them away before he looks at me, at my panties, and puts his hands inside his back bag.

"What're you doing?"

"Looking for my phone," he says, grinning, and a moment later, he's looking at my underwear with a flashlight. I can't react before he throws away his phone and starts laughing against my neck.

"Oh, my God, Bella," he mutters, a grin in his voice. "You were serious."

I blush and I'm sure he can feel it because in his muffled voice, he groans.

"You have Mickey Mouse G-strings."

"Of course I do," I reply like I'm not mortified. He grins.

He takes off his own pants after double-checking if I'm sure, and suddenly, we're making out in a cool, windy summer night, stark naked and eager to learn about each other's bodies. I fumble and I blush, and I think Edward can tell, but he assures me by stroking and kissing and teaching me what he likes. He's tender, never putting any pressure on my stomach, always making sure I'm okay with his actions. It could be past midnight when I'm about to fall asleep on top of Edward, feeling his fingers trail patterns on my back and warm breath on my neck. His heart is getting steady, and I smile before pressing a kiss on his chest.

"What are you so happy about?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.

"You."

He turns on his side and wraps all limbs around me, as he does, and kisses my ear. I wake up at dawn, I think, with the edge of the sky a pastel pink that would be ugly on anything but the sky, and a breeze that's colder than ever. I hide my ears under the blanket, and look at Edward. He's on his back, staring at the sky.

"Have you slept at all?" I ask, and when Edward sees I'm awake, he takes my cold hands in his and starts rubbing them.

"A little," he replies. "I've been thinking." Sliding an arm around me, he brushes fingers over the scars on my back, and pulls me closer. He rests his forehead against mine, but his eyes are far away. "Remember when you asked me what I wanted from life?"

I nod.

"Well, I…" He lets out a sigh and kisses the back of my hand. "I think I've figured out the answer, and I don't like it."

His gaze falls on the fading stars, and for a long time, he stares at them without saying anything. Finally, he turns his face to me and smiles, but it's sad.

"I want… I want not to want what dad wants for me."

: :

A week later, Edward and I come over to hold Esme company and cook for her. She asked for pasta with pickles (and pieces of pineapple), which is simple (weird) enough, so Edward and I cook dinner for her. His mom looks glowing, happy, tired, and she teaches us where the sieve and other utensils are while Edward throws questions at her. I can't understand most acronyms, or the meaning behind them, but Edward clearly does.

"Did you do the NT scan? Triple test? AFP blood test?"

"All of them."

"What about diagnostic? Amnio? CVS?"

She nods.

"Cardocentesis?"

Esme reaches over to squeeze Edward's hand. "Everything's fine." She smiles up at him, glowing and beautiful, and smoothes his frown with her fingertips. "Your concern is lovely but unnecessary. We're okay."

"Mom," Edward says, sitting down next to her. "You have to understand, none of the results are conclusive, and at your age—"

"I know," she replies. "I'm a risk group, and no-one can guarantee we're getting a healthy child. But the IVF treatment finally worked, Edward. It finally worked. I've wanted this for too long. _We_'ve wanted this for too long. I discussed this with your father years ago, and we'll take whoever God gives us and love him regardless. I know you are worried, but your worry makes me worried and I don't want to waste time on it. I've always wanted a child of my own, and I've been blessed with an opportunity now. Let me be happy."

"Okay," Edward says quietly, getting up. He doesn't grimace, nothing like that, but Esme still pales a little. She gets up.

"I didn't mean it like that, Edward. You know—"

"It's okay," Edward assures, smiling, makes sure she sits down, and yet, comes to seek affection from me (I mean, help me chop pickles). I've known him long enough to understand when he's using emergency lies, and I'm not sure if I should be happy or disappointed about that.

"We love you," Esme says, looking at Edward. "Nothing will ever change that."

"Love you too," Edward says, squeezing her shoulder in passing. "I know what you mean. So have you thought about names yet?"

"We like Kelly."

"Kelly?" Edward and I cry simultaneously, catching each other's eyes.

"But—I thought you were having a boy," Edward says.

"We are. Kelly could be a boy's name."

"Well, yes," I confirm. "If you want to ruin his life. I don't know much about having or raising a kid, but maybe… maybe it's wiser to choose a name that doesn't immediately set the kid up for bullying. Take it from someone who knows."

Esme frowns. "But you have a lovely name, Isabella. Isabella Swan. Very majestic."

"Yes, but my parents set me up. Imagine a girl whose name means Little Pearl, or something equally cheesy, and watch her grow into a woman carrying five hundred pounds on her back. You just shouldn't name a kid beautiful and watch her struggle to live up to it when she is anything but."

"Bella," Edward warns.

"Don't. It is a fact—a fact—that I've been bullied as much for my appearance as I've been bullied for my name. I won't grow into a stronger person denying my past. It happened, it sucked, whatever. But please, Esme, I won't ask anything, I won't even suggest any names of my own if you only don't give your kid a name that will make the first twenty years of his life a living hell."

"Aw, honey," Esme says, and her smile is sad when she motions for me to sit in front of her. She takes both of my shoulders in her hands. "You're beautiful and Edward is lucky to have you. I promise to find a bully-proof name if you promise to suggest some of your own."

"Okay."

"Yes?"

I nod and kiss her forehead, because she's just so motherly and I see why Edward is so protective of her. She helps us set a table.

"What about Bernard? Horace?" she asks as we eat. "Eugene?"

My shoulder gets wet when Edward spits out his water, grabs tissues and starts pressing them against my shoulder. He keeps apologizing, but I brush him off.

"No offense, mom, but I'm kind of glad you didn't give me a name," Edward says, pulling a face as he turns to me. "I could have been _Bernard_. Bernard Horace Eugene Cullen."

I grimace, and even Esme starts laughing when I can't keep a straight face.

"Okay, but if you don't like my ideas, suggest some of your own," Esme says, unshaken by our reaction.

"What about, I don't know. Jack? William? Jordan? Steven? Something solid, manly."

"William," I repeat. "I like William. Nicholas, Andrew, Liam—"

"Liam? That's not a name," Edward says.

"It so is. Liam Hemsworth from _The Hunger Games_? Swoony name for a swoony guy."

Amused by my remark, Edward turns to face me, eyebrows raised. "So you believe this Hemsearth-character—"

"_Hemsworth_."

"Whatever, you think he's swoony?"

"I do," I say, grinning as Edward squints at me, mock-aghast.

"He's swoony," Esme agrees, and I high-five her as Edward pretends to be offended.

"Mom! You're supposed to be on my side!"

She shrugs, smiling at me. "He is, though. Swoony. And I like that name. Liam."

"How do you even know _who_ _he_ _is_?"

"Not all of us hate movies as much as you do," Esme says, smiling.

"Oh, how come I never knew you liked moves? What do you like? Would you like to watch something together before your son is born?"

Her smile widens. "I'd love that, Bella."

"Brilliant."

Edward waves an arm between us.

"Aw, do you feel left out?" I pull his hand in my lap and intertwine our fingers. Esme smiles at us.

"What about Henry?" she asks.

"Henry," Edward repeats. "Good, solid name."

I squeeze his hand. "I like it."

"Would that be bully-proof?" Esme asks. "I wonder what Carlisle would think of it."

"Ask him."

"I think I will," she says, but her voice drifts off and eyes don't focus. "I feel… I feel…" Pale, she starts rubbing her stomach, and as she does so, my gaze lands on her dress. It's covered in reddish goo.

"Edward?"

It's only a nanosecond from the moment I point at Esme's dress and the moment Edward is standing by her side, holding her hand. Like in slow motion, Esme looks up at Edward, her expression torn, heart-breaking, and absolutely disbelieving.

"It's too soon," she mutters, voice eerie and distant. "I'm only 29 weeks along. It's too soon."

"Mom," Edward says. "Mom, look at me."

"It's too soon," Esme repeats, barely a whisper. "It can't be. It's too soon."

"Look at me!"

She does, and Edward cups her face in his hands to catch her gaze. "Do you trust me?"

"It's too soon," she repeats like a broken record. "It's too soon, Edward."

"Look at me! We'll take you to the hospital, and you'll be okay. Alright? You'll be okay. Can you stand? Where's your bag for the hospital?"

She keeps shaking her head. "It's too soon."

"Bella, I need you to take my wallet and phone from my room, towels from the bathroom and look for a blue sports bag in mom's bedroom. _Right_ _now_."

For a brief second, our eyes lock, and when a guy like Edward is so beyond petrified he doesn't even shout in a situation like this, you don't question him. Skipping three steps, I ignore the sharp pain in my back as I land and run to find everything he asked for, I even find a blue sports back underneath Esme's bed. I lock the front door and sprint to the car. We place a couple of towels in the backseat, Edward tells me to sit in the back and off we go. There's blood, oh God. So much blood. I buckle Esme up, I let her squeeze my hand as silent tears cover her cheeks and she keeps repeating the same sentence, over and over again.

Filling Edward's instructions, I call David for him to have a wheelchair ready, I call Carlisle, he sounds terrified, and I make sure Esme is conscious and breathing.

Fifteen minutes later, Edward jumps out of the car, and I help him with Esme before a swarm of nurses and doctors whisk her away in a wheelchair, and Carlisle is there, pale like a fucking ghost, and they disappear behind a corner as Edward sighs, wipes his face, kisses my forehead in silence and starts filling out paperwork.

Having finished with it, Edward crouches in front of me.

"You okay? You look pale."

"I'm fine," I say. "What are the chances of your brother… making it?"

"He'll be okay."

"Don't give me the answer with the pink glasses."

Edward sits next to me, wipes his face, and brushes hair from my forehead. "Slim, I think. The chances are slim. Not zero, but slim."

I nod.

"Listen, I hate sitting around in situations like this and I'm gonna go and see if they let me help somehow. Will you be okay? Here, take my wallet, buy something, take a taxi and go home if it takes too long."

"I'll be here," I answer. "Guarding your wallet."

"Okay," he says, the barest of smiles on his lips before he kisses me. "I'm proud of you."

"That was all you."

"It was us," he finishes.

"Send someone if there's any news, okay?"

I wish I had his experience with volunteering, his connections, his drive, anything, because then I could be useful in a situation like this, but all I do is sit and ignore the pain in my back. I play with Edward's phone. I watch the hour hand reach new levels of slowness. When three hours have passed, I hear Edward call my name at the end of the corridor. I stand.

A man I recognize as Carlisle catches up with him. Words are being shared, and suddenly, Carlisle is in Edward's arms, rocking with sobs. My eyes fill with tears because it's surreal and heartbreaking and I don't think it's really happening. I close my eyes until Carlisle pulls me into a hug.

"Thank you," he whispers, kisses my right cheek, left cheek, and right one again. His are wet. "Thank you, Bella. Thank you. You saved him."

They're both smiling like idiots when he pulls back. I watch Carlisle pull Edward into another hug. All bypassers ignore them because what could be so serious as to cause a grown man weep by his son's side? Surely, it's serious enough to pretend it's not happening.

"Thank you," Carlisle whispers, pressing his face against Edward's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. You saved him. Please come home. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He repeats those three sentences, and I watch their interaction, feeling somewhat awkward but light-hearted. Carlisle, too, is somewhere between giggling and hysterical laughter, and he pats Edward's back when he pulls back.

"Come back home, son," Carlisle says, eyes happy as he receives smiles, handshakes and congratulations from passing nurses. "I'm sorry. Please come back. We miss you."

Edward is smiling, but his eyes remain cautious. "Dad, I… maybe we should have a talk."

"Great," he replies, sits on the nearest bench and pats the place next to him. "Of course."

Unmoving, Edward runs a nervous hand through his hair. "Not today. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for us. But me having a brother in no way automatically fixes anything. I have… things to say. You won't like most of them. Let's not ruin this day. Go to mom, see if she needs anything."

Carlisle's smile falters. "Can't you just come back?"

"No." Edward averts his eyes. "Circumstances have changed."

"Like what?"

"Not today, dad."

"Son—"

"You're good at theory. You're good at this. You're good at convincing me next time will be different, but you suck at showing you mean what you say with your actions. I know that now. So don't act like I'm making a fuss over nothing."

"I am sorry, son," Carlisle mutters, leaning forward. "I am. Tell me what to do differently, and I promise I will."

Edward huffs. "I need no promises. Show me, and I'll believe you."

"Son, I… Let's just forget this. Put it behind us. I forgive you and—"

"Fuck! This, dad, _this_ is why I can't come back," Edward replies. "_You_ forgive _me_? For what? For overreacting? If that's what you believe, I don't think we have anything to discuss."

"I didn't mean—"

"No," he replies, motioning for me to walk with him. "Call me when you start to mean anything that leaves your mouth." Before we turn the corner, I catch a glimpse of Carlisle resting elbows on his knees, palms covering his face, and I feel sorry for him, I do. But then we round the corner, and Edward lets out a breath and shrinks against me. He holds me in his arms.

"Wanna go see Joseph?"

"Joseph, huh? Are we allowed?"

He smiles, and takes my hand. "He's in the NICU, but we can see him through glass. Cutest tiny bundle you will ever meet."


End file.
